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It has been our object to gather in one small 
volume some of the best examples in the 
English tongue of that poetical genre usually 
known as vers de societS, or Society Verse. In 
doing this, we ought at once to disclaim any 
ambition to make our collection either author- 
itative or all-embracing. As a literary type, 
Society Verse is so elusive and its limits so 
vaguely defined that it is impossible to please 
everybody's critical taste. There are, of 
course, certain poems concerning the inclusion 
of which no intelligent reader will be likely to 
have a doubt; but there are numerous others 
which are more difficult to classify, and about 
which opinions will inevitably differ. 

Our own standard has certainly not been 
too high or too exacting. With Brander Mat- 
thews, we have recognized that Society Verse, 


whatever else its virtues, must have the qual- 
ities of "brevity, brilliancy, and buoyancy." 
Like Locker-Lampson, we have conceived of 
it as treating, for the most part, of "that 
charmed circle of uncertain limits known con- 
ventionally as 'good society' — a circle gov- 
erned by a code of artificial manners and in 
constant subjugation to Mrs. Grundy." At 
its best, Society Verse has lightness and deli- 
cacy of touch, gracefulness of phrasing, and 
an appearance of spontaneity combined with 
a hint of artifice. The feeling expressed must 
never be crude or exuberant. The style must 
not be too elevated nor the thoughts too pro- 
found. Robert Browning once said that he 
did not intend his poetry to be a substitute for 
a cigar. These versifiers — writers like Prior 
and Gay, Praed and Locker-Lampson, Holmes 
and Dobson — have had, on the contrary, no 
other aim than to give delight. If they relapse 
into seriousness, it is only for an interval. If 
they dally with love, it is in the mood of Or- 


lando, not of Romeo. As one of them once put 

"When wisdom halts, I humbly try 
To make the most of folly: 
If Pallas be unwilling, I 
Prefer to flirt with Polly." 

Theirs is essentially the poetry of men of 
the world, urbane and unruffled, untainted by 
anything coarse or commonplace. They are 
often satirical, but never ill-tempered; al- 
though they are playful, they are seldom con- 
temptuous. The pattern for them all is the 
Roman Horace, the well-bred and cultivated 

Society Verse, then, must be considered as 
one of the products of civilized social condi- 
tions. Born of the drawing room and the club, 
it is fostered in a sophisticated period and can 
flourish only under the protection of the fash- 
ionable. These poets sing, not of wild life in 
the open, but of the closed and lighted recep- 
tion-hall; not of battle or adventure, but of 


the dance and the card-table; not of stormy 
passions, but of sentiment, mild flirtation, and 
the nuances of small talk. Self-control, polite- 
ness, conventionality — these are the marks 
of Society Verse. 

No less characteristic is a pervasive humor, 
rarely degenerating into farce or burlesque, 
but subtle, and brought out by suggestion 
rather than by more obvious methods. No 
mood should be long maintained. From grave 
to gay, from shadow to sunbeam, the poet 
turns and changes, now playing momentarily 
with a clever idea, and then shifting into 
equally transitory merriment. Passion merges 
imperceptibly into persiflage; pathos stops 
short on the verge of tragedy. 

In Society Verse technical skill is almost 
indispensable. Unable to rely for his effect on 
the force of any powerful emotion, the writer 
must trust to polished phrasing, smooth and 
melodious versification, and unaccustomed 
rhyme schemes. Felicity of diction must go 


hand in hand with wit. No matter how trifling 
the thought, it must have a perfect setting. 

The serious-minded and the irrevocably 
Puritanical will be inclined to dismiss these 
versifiers as mere triflers, and to scorn their 
stanzas as artificial. But poetry cannot always 
be concerned with mighty issues any more 
than architecture can be forever designing 
cathedrals. Many of them are frankly among 
the humbler poets, who are content to sit 
among the jesters, to wear motley even, if only 
they achieve perfection in their own restricted 
field of art. Such as these can endure the re- 
proach of worldliness, knowing that they have 
at least avoided the ponderous and the dull. 
Others are men of lofty poetical genius, who 
have not disdained to spend some care-free 
hours experimenting in lighter vein. On the 
shelves of those who love them, the volumes of 
Society Verse are worn by much handling, and 
the pages open as if by instinct to the well- 
known lines. 



In making a selection, then, from the im- 
mense body of literature available, we have 
given a liberal interpretation to the term 
"Society Verse." We have even included 
poems like Holmes's "The Last Leaf" and 
Saxe's "My Familiar," which, while placed in 
similar anthologies, do not, in spite of their 
popularity, exactly meet the requirements out- 
lined in the preceding paragraphs. It is quite 
apparent that the range between such a bit 
of banter as Calverley's "Companions" and 
such an exquisitely formed lyric as Swinburne's 
"An Interlude" — both of which we have 
chosen — is very great. Hoping to make 
the collection representative, we have limited 
ourselves to no particular period or section, 
but have tried to cull the best, whether old 
or new, British or American. Nor have we 
hesitated to allow our own preferences to be 
a deciding factor, for which reason several 
poems not altogether conforming to even rec- 
ognized standards may, perhaps, be found. 


The choice, in any case, as we began by saying, 
will probably be entirely pleasing to no one, 
least of all to ourselves 

A word or two about the plan of arrange- 
ment may not be amiss. The traditional 
chronological or alphabetical systems seemed 
to have little in their favor, and the tempta- 
tion to abandon both was irresistible. We have, 
therefore, attempted a grouping by subject- 
matter, a method which has its obvious weak- 
ness; but which we cannot help believing is the 
one best adapted to this kind of anthology. 
Readers who are hunting some particular 
poem will find no difficulty in tracing it 
through the indexes. 

C. M. F. 

H. C. S. 
Andover, Massachusetts 
February 14, 1922 



Ad Chloen, M.A. Mortimer Collins '32 
Answer to Chloe Jealous. Matthew Prior 52 
Art above Nature. Robert Herrick 18 
Atalanta in Camden-Town. Lewis Carroll 65 
At the Church Gate. William Makepeace Thack- 
eray 95 
Avice. Austin Dobson 91 

Bachelor's Dream, The. Thomas Hood 151 

Ballad of Bouillabaisse, The. William Make- 
peace Thackeray 248 
Ballad of Dead Ladies, A. Justin Huntly Mc- 
Carthy 341 
Ballade of the Devil-May-Care. Gelett Burgess 149 
Because. Edward Fitzgerald 100 
Belle of the Ball-Room, The. Winthrop Mack- 
worth Praed 289 

Catharina. William Cowper 188 
Celia, To. Sir Charles Sedley 121 
Changed. Charles Stuart Calverley 206 
Chapter of Froissart, A. Austin Dobson 275 
Child, To a. Austin Dobson 4 
Child of Quality, Five Years Old, To a. Mat- 
thew Prior 9 
Chivalry at a Discount. Edward Fitzgerald 295 


Chloe, To. Thomas Moore 141 

Coming Out. Owen Seaman 37 

Companions. Charles Stuart Calverley 169 

Conversation Galante. T. S. Eliot 119 

Correspondents, To. Andrew Lang 235 

Coy Mistress, To his. Andrew Mar veil 83 

Critics, To. Walter Learned 12 

Cupid Mistaken. Matthew Prior 200 

Da Capo. Henry Cuyler Bunner 142 

Dialogue from Plato, A. Austin Dobson 88 

Dictum Sapienti. Charles Henry Webb 111 

Dirce. Walter Savage Landor %7 

Dollie. Samuel Minturn Peck 19 

Dolly Varden. Francis Bret Harte 303 

Dora versus Rose. Austin Dobson 114 

Dorothy Q. Oliver Wendell Holmes 325 

Effects of Age, The. Walter Savage Landor 273 

Eight-Day Clock, The. Alfred Cochrane 244 

Epithalamium. Edward Sandjord Martin 132 

Fanny, To. Thomas Moore 30 

Fashion. Arthur Guiterman 216 
Fashionable Novel, A. Thomas Haynes Bayly 225 

Female Phaeton, The. Matthew Prior 50 
Feminine Arithmetic. Charles Graham Halpine 11 

Five O'Clock. David Morton 284 

Florine. Thomas Campbell 194 
Friend and Lover. Mary Ainge de Vere , 184 


Gage d' Amour, A. Austin Dobson 316 

Gift, The> Oliver Goldsmith 203 

Good-Night. Edward Fitzgerald 179 
Good-Night to the Season. Winthrop Mack- 

worih Praed 41 

Gray Haires, Upon his. Robert Herrick 14 

Her Letter. Francis Bret Harte 208 

Ianthe. Walter Savage Landor 25 
Ideal Husband to his Wife, The. Sam Walter 

Foss 220 

If. James Jeffrey Roche 158 

Imitation. Henry Cuyler Runner 85c 

In Explanation. Walter Learned 63 

Insect, To an. Oliver Wendell Holmes 238 
Intaglio Head of Minerva, On an. Thomas 

Bailey Aldrich 241 

Interlude, An. Algernon Charles Swinburne 145 

Jenny kiss'd me when we met. James Henry 

Leigh Hunt 15 

Ladies of St. James's, The. Austin Dobson 58 

Lady, To a. Lord Byron 97 

Last Leaf, The. Oliver Wendell Holmes 264 

Lesson in Mythology, A. Eliza C. Hall 98 
Little Brother of the Rich, A. Edward Sandford 

Martin 232 

Look, The. Sara Teasdale 187 


Love. Charles Stuari Calverley 73 

Love and Age. Thomas Love Peacock 2S6 

Love in a Cottage. Nathaniel Parker Willis 16 

Lydia Dick. Eugene Field 309 

Mabel, To. Edward Sandford Martin 6 

"Magdalena." Henry Cuyler Bunner 176 
Man's Requirements, A. Elizabeth Barrett 

Broivning 123 
Merchant, The. Matthew Prior 122 
Minerva, To. Thomas Hood 224 
Minnie, To. Robert Louis Stevenson 21 
Minuet, The. Mary Mapes Dodge 333 
Miss Creuze, To. William Cowper 26 
Modern Belle, The. Anonymous 182 
Mrs. Smith. Frederick Locker-Lampson 160 
My Aunt. Oliver Wendell Holmes 338 
My Aunt's Spectre. Mortimer Collins 336 
My Boy. James Whitcomb Riley 253 
My Familiar. John Godfrey Saxe 227 
My Fancy. Lewis Carroll 218 
My Grandmother, To. Frederick Locker-Lamp- 
son 329 
My Mistress's Boots. Frederick Locker-Lamp- 
son 22 
My Rival. Rudyard Kipling 47 

Nice Correspondent, A. Frederick Locker- 
Lampson 108 
No Longer Jealous. Walter Savage Landor 68 


Oh, see how Thick the Goldcup Flowers. A. E. 

Housman 3-1 

Old Grimes. Albert Gorton Greene 261 

Old Letters. Frederick Locker- Lampson 320 
Old Man to an Old Madeira, An. Silas Weir 

Mitchell 254< 
Old Rondo, An. Frank Dempster Sherman 163 
On an Intaglio Head of Minerva. Thomas Bai- 
ley Aldrich 241 
On the Brink. Charles Stuart Calverley 172 
Our Ball. Winthrop Mackicorth Praed 76 
Out upon it, I have loved. Sir John Suckling 128 

Peremptory Lover, The. Unknown 129 

Phoebe, To. William Schwenck Gilbert 131 

Phyllis, To. Thomas Moore 61 

Plays. Walter Savage Landor 215 

Please to Ring the Belle. Thomas Hood 213 

Portrait of "A Gentleman/' The. Oliver Wendell 

Holmes 258 

Pot-Pourri. Austin Dobson 306 

Prime of Life, The. Walter Learned 13 

Proud Word you never Spoke. Walter Savage 

Landor 195 

Quaker Lady, The. Silas Weir Mitchell 323 

Rhyme for Priscilla, A. Frank Dempster Sher- 
man 103 
Romance of a Glove, The. B. Saville Clarke 313 


Romaunt o! the Rose, The. Austin Dobson 185 

Rose, The. William Cowper 196 

Rose's Birthday. Walter Savage Landor 72 

Sapho, To. Robert Herrick 62 
School and School Fellows. Winthrop Mack- 
worth Praed 279 
Senex's Soliloquy on His Youthful Idol. Thomas 

Campbell 29 

Shall I, Wasting in Despair. George Wither 156 

She is not Fair. Franklin P. Adams 126 

"She was a Beauty." Henry Cuyler Bvnner 299 

Sigh no more, Ladies. William Shakespeare 165 

Snowdrop. William Wetmore Story 64 

Soli Cantare Periti Arcades. Ernest Dowson 117 

Song. John Donne 201 

Song of Thyrsis. Philip Freneau 127 

Soubrette, To a. Eugene Field 300 

Spelling Lesson, The. Carolyn Wells 107 

Superfluous Man, The. John Godfrey Saxe 166 

Terrible Infant, A. Frederick Locker-Lampson 237 

Thalia. Thomas Bailey Aldrich 138 

Thyrsis, Song of. Philip Freneau 127 
Time I've lost in Wooing, The. Thomas 

Moore 198 

To a Child. Austin Dobson 4 
To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704: 

The Author Then Forty. Matthew Prior 9 

To a Lady. Lord Byron 97 


To a Soubrette. Eugene Field 300 

To an Insect. Oliver Wendell Holmes 238 

To Celia. Sir Charles Sedley 121 

To Chloe. Thomas Moore 141 

To Correspondents. Andrew Lang 235 

To Critics. Walter Learned 12 

To Fanny. Thomas Moore 30 

To his Coy Mistress. Andrew Marvell 83 

To Mabel. Edward Sandford Martin 6 

To Minerva. Thomas Hood 224 

To Minnie. Robert Louis Stevenson 21 
To Miss Creuze, on her Birthday. William 

Cowper 26 
To My Grandmother. Frederick Locker-Lamp- 

son 329 

To No One in Particular. Witter Bynner 36 

To Phoebe. William Schwenck Gilbert 131 

To Phyllis. Thomas Moore 61 

To Sapho. Robert Herrick 62 

Truth. Oliver Herford 28 

Upon a Venerable Rival. William Cowper 69 

Upon his Gray Haires. Robert Herrick 14 

Vanitas Vanitatum. William Makepeace Thack- 
eray 343 
Vanity Fair. Frederick Locker- Lampson 1 
Venerable Rival, Upon a. William Coioper 69 
Verse. Walter Savage Landor 71 
Vicar. The. William Mackworth Praed 267 


We Two learned the Lesson Together. Rudyard 

Kipling 191 

What she said about it. Charles Henry Webb 112 
When I loved You. Thomas Moore 164 

When I was One-and-Twenty. A. E. Housman 193 
When Love is Kind. Thomas Moore 136 

White Flag, The. John Hay 86 

Why don't the Men propose? Thomas Haynes 

Bayly 55 

Why so Pale and Wan? Sir John Suckling 205 
Without and Within. James Russell Lowell 230 


The compilers acknowledge their indebtedness 
to the following authors and publishers for the 
use of copyright poems : 

The Bobbs-Merrill Company for "My Boy," 
from the Biographical Edition of the Complete 
Works of James Whitcomb Riley (copyright, 

The Century Company for "An Old Man to 
an Old Madeira" and " The Quaker Lady," 
from the Collected Poems of S. Weir Mitchell, 
and for "The Minuet," by Mary Mapes Dodge. 

Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company for "To 
a Child," "The Ladies of St. James's," "A 
Dialogue from Plato," "Avice," "Dora versus 
Rose," "The Romaunt of the Rose," "A 
Chapter of Froissart," "A Gage D'Amour," 
and "Pot-pourri," all by Austin Dobson; and 
for "Oh, See how Thick the Goldcup Flowers " 


and "When I was Young-and-Twenty," from 
A. E. Housman's A Shropshire Lad. 

Messrs. Harper & Brothers for Mr. Arthur 
Guiterman's "Fashion," from his book The 
Laughing Muse, and for Mr. Justin Huntly 
McCarthy's "Ballade of Dead Ladies," from 
his novel If I were King, 

Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company for 
"On An Intaglio Head of Minerva" and "Tha- 
lia," by Thomas Bailey Aldrich; "Dolly Var- 
den " and "Her Letter," by Francis Bret Harte; 
"The White Flag," by John Hay; "Dorothy 
Q.," "The Last Leaf," "My Aunt," "The 
Portrait of a Gentleman," and "To an In- 
sect," all by Oliver Wendell Holmes; "Without 
and Within," by James Russell Lowell; "An 
Old Rondo" and "A Rhyme for Priscilla," by 
Frank Dempster Sherman; "Snowdrop," by 
William Wetmore Story. 

Mr. Alfred A. Knopf for T. S. Eliot's 
"Conversation Galante." 

The Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company for 


"The Ideal Husband to his Wife," from Sam 
Walter Foss's Whiffs from Wild Meadows. 

The Macmillan Company for Sara Teas- 
dale's "The Look," from her volume Rivers to 
the Sea. 

Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for "Imi- 
tation," "Da Capo," "Magdalena," and "She 
Was a Beauty," all by Henry Cuyler Bunner; 
for "To Mabel," "Epithalamium," and "A 
Little Brother of the Rich," all by Edward 
Sandford Martin; and for "To a Soubrette" 
and "Lydia Dick," by Eugene Field. 

The Frederick A. Stokes Company for "To 
Critics," "The Prime of Life," and "In Ex- 
planation," by Walter Learned, and for "Dol- 
iie," from Samuel Minturn Peck's Cap and 
Bells (copyright, 1886). 

Mr. Franklin P. Adams for his poem "She 

is Not Fair." 

Mr. Gelett Burgess for his "Ballade of the 




Mr. Witter Bynner for his poem "To No 
One in Particular," from his volume Gren* 
stone Poems (Knopf). 

Mr. Oliver Herford for his poem "Truth." 
Mrs. Hadwin Houghton (Carolyn Wells) for 
her poem "The Spelling Lesson." 




"Vanitas vanitatum" has rung in the ears 
Of gentle and simple for thousands of years; 
The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare 
Either simple or gentle from Vanity Fair. 

I often hear people abusing it, yet 

There the young go to learn and the old to for- 

The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be 

But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair. 

Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind 
Air a Cura is up with the lacqueys behind; 


Joan trudges with Jack — are the Sweethearts 

Of the trouble that waits them in Vanity Fair? 

We saw them all go, and we something may 

Of the harvest they reap when we see them re- 

The tree was enticing; its branches are bare — 

Heigho for the promise of Vanity Fair. 

That stupid old Dives, once honest enough, 
His honesty sold for star, ribbon, and stuff; 
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with 

Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair. 

Contemptible Dives! Too credulous Joan! 
Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own; 
My son, you have yours, but you need not de- 
spair — 
I own I've a weakness fo^ Vanity Fair. 


Philosophy halts — wise counsels are vain, 
We go, we repent, we return there again; 
To-night you will certainly meet with us there - 
So come and be merry in Vanity Fair. 

Frederick Locker-Lampson 


(from the "garland of rachael") 

How shall I sing you, Child, for whom 

So many lyres are strung; 
Or how the only tone assume 

That fits a Maid so young? 

What rocks there are on either hand! 

Suppose — 't is on the cards — 
You should grow up with quite a grand 

Platonic hate for bards! 

How shall I then be shamed, undone, 

For ah! with what a scorn 
Your eyes must greet that luckless One 

Who rhymed you, newly born, — 

Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bent 

His idle verse to turn; 
And twanged his tiresome instrument 

Above your unconcern! 


Nay, — let my words be so discreet, 
That, keeping Chance in view, 

Whatever after fate you meet 
A part may still be true. 

Let others wish you mere good looks, — 

Your sex is always fair; 
Or to be writ in Fortune's books, — 

She 's rich who has to spare : 

I wish you but a heart that's kind, 
A head that's sound and clear; 

(Yet let the heart be not too blind, 
The head not too severe!) 

A joy of life, a frank delight; 

A not-too-large desire; 
And — if you fail to find a Knight — 

At least ... a trusty Squire. 

Austin Dobson 


Upon this anniversary, 

My little godchild, aged three, 

My compliments I make to thee, 

Quite heedless. 
And that you '11 throw them now away, 
But treasure them some future day, 
Are platitudes, the which to say 

Is needless. 

You small, stout damsel, muckle mou'd, 
With cropped tow-head and manners rude, 
And stormy spirit unsubdued 

By nurses, 
Where you were raised was it in vogue 
To lisp that Tipperary brogue? 
Oh, you're a subject sweet, you rogue, 

For verses! 

Last Sunday morning when we stayed 
At home you got yourself arrayed 


In Lyman's clothes and turned from maid 

To urchin. 
And when we all laughed at you so, 
You eyed outside the falling snow, 
And thought your rig quite fit to go 

To church in. 

Play on, play on, dear little lass! 
Play on till sixteen summers pass, 
And then I '11 bring a looking-glass, 

And there be- 
Fore you on your lips I'll show 
The curves of small Dan Cupid's bow, 
And then the crop that now is "tow" 

Shall "fair" be. 

And then I'll show you, too, the charms 
Of small firm hands and rounded arms, 
And eyes whose flashes send alarms 

Right through you; 
And then a half-regretful sigh 
May break from me to think that I, 


At forty years, can never try, 
To woo you. 

What shall I wish you? Free from ruth, 
To live and learn in love and truth, 
Through childhood's day and days of youth, 

And school's day. 
For all the days that intervene 
'Twixt Mab at three and at nineteen, 
Are but one sombre or serene 

All Fool's Day. 

Edward Sandford Martin 




Loves, knights and squires, the numerous 

That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, 
Were summoned by her high command, 

To show their passions by their letters. 

My pen among the rest I took, 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obey'd. 

Not quality, nor reputation, 
Forbid me yet my flame to tell, 

Dear five-years-old befriends my passion 
And I may write till she can spell. 

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds 
With all the tender things I swear; 


Whilst all the house my passion reads, 
In papers round her baby's hair; 

She may receive and own my flame, 

For, though the strictest prudes should know 

She '11 pass for a most virtuous dame, 
And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then too alas! when she shall tear 

The rhymes some younger rival sends; 

She'll give me leave to write, I fear, 
And we shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 

'T is so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) 
That I shall be past making love, 

When she begins to comprehend it. 

Matthew Prior 




On me he shall ne'er put a ring, 

So, mamma, 't is vain to take trouble — 

For I was but eighteen in spring, 
While his age exactly is double. 


He's but in his thirty-sixth year, 

Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, 

And should you refuse him, my dear, 
May you die an old maid without pity! 


His figure, I grant you, will pass, 

And at present he's young enough plenty; 
But when I am sixty, alas ! 

Will not he be a hundred and twenty? 

Charles Graham Halpine 



When I was seventeen I heard 
From each censorious tongue, 

"I'd not do that if I were you; 
You see you're rather young." 

Now that I number forty years, 

I'm quite as often told 
Of this or that I should n't do 

Because I'm quite too old. 

O carping world! If there's an age 
Where youth and manhood keep 

An equal poise, alas! I must 
Have passed it in my sleep. 

Walter Learned 



Just as I thought I was growing old, 

Ready to sit in my easy-chair, 
To watch the world with a heart grown cold, 

And smile at a folly I would not share, 

Rose came by with a smile for me, 
And I am thinking that forty year 

Is n't the age that it seems to be, 

When two pretty brown eyes are near. 

Bless me! of life it is just the prime, 
A fact that 1 hope she will understand; 

And forty year is a perfect rhyme 

To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand. 

These gray hairs are by chance, you see — 

Boys are sometimes gray, I am told : 
Rose came by with a smile for me, 
Just as I thought I was getting old. 

Walter Learned 


Fly me not, though I be gray, 
Lady, this I know you'll say; 
Better look the Roses red, 
When with white commingled. 
Black your haires are; mine are white; 
This begets the more delight, 
When things meet most opposite: 
As in Pictures we descry, 
Venus standing Vulcan by. 

Robert Herrick 



Jenny kiss'd me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in; 
Time, you thief! who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in. 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; 

Say that health and wealth have miss'd 
Say I'm growing old, but add — 
Jenny kiss'd me! 
James Henry Leigh Hunt 



They may talk of love io a cottage, 

And bowers of trellised vine — 
Of nature bewitchingly simple, 

And milkmaids half divine; 
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping 

In the shade of a spreading tree, 
And a walk in the fields at morning, 

By the side of a footstep free! 

But give me a sly flirtation 

By the light of a chandelier — 
With music to play in the pauses. 

And nobody very near; 
Or a seat on a silken sofa, 

With a glass of pure old wine, 
And mamma too blind to discover 

The small white hand in mine. 


Your love in a cottage is hungry, 

Your vine is a nest for flies — 
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, 

And simplicity talks of pies! 
You lie down to your shady slumber 

And wake with a bug in your ear, 
And your damsel that walks in the 

Is shod like a mountaineer. 

True love is at home on a carpet, 

And mightily likes his ease — 
And true love has an eye for a dinner, 

And starves beneath shady trees. 
His wing is the fan of a lady, 

His foot's an invisible thinp , 
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel 

And shot from a silver string. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis 




When I behold a Forrest spread 
With silken trees upon thy head; 
And when I see that other Dresse 
Of flowers set in comlinesse: 
When T behold another grace 
In the ascent of curious Lace, 
Which like a Pinacle doth shew 
The top, and the top-gallant too. 
Then, when I see thy Tresses bound 
Into an Ovall, square, or round; 
And knit in knots far more than I 
Can tell by tongue; or true-love tie: 
Next, when those Lawnie Filmes I see 
Play with a wild civility : 
And all those airie silks to flow, 
Alluring me, and tempting so: 
I must confesse, mine eye and heart 
Dotes less on Nature, than on Art. 

Robert Herrick 


She sports a witching gown 
With a ruffle up and down, 

On the skirt: 
She is gentle, she is shy, 
But there's mischief in her eye, 

She's a flirt! 

She displays a tiny glove, 
And a dainty little love 

Of a shoe; 
And she wears her hat a-tilt 
Over bangs that never wilt 

In the dew. 

'T is rumoured chocolate creams 

Are the fabrics of her dreams — 

But enough! . 



I know beyond a doubt 
That she carries them about 
In her muff. 

With her dimples and her curls 
She exasperates the girls 

Past belief: 
They hint that she's a cat, 
And delightful things like that 

In her grief. 

It is shocking, I declare, 
But what does Dollie care 

When the beaux 
Come flocking to her feet 
Like the bees around a sweet 

Little rose! 

Samuel Minturn Peck 



(with a hand-glass) 

A PICTURE-FRAME for you to fill, 

A paltry setting for your face, 
A thing that has no worth until 

You lend it something of your grace. 

I send (unhappy I that sing 
Laid by awhile upon the shelf) 

Because I would not send a thing 
Less charming than you are yourself. 

And happier than I, alas! 

(Dumb thing; I envy its delight) 
'T will wish you well, the looking-glass, 

(And look you in the face to-night). 
Robert Louis Stevenson 



She has dancing eyes and ruby lips 
Delightful boots — and away she skips. 

They nearly strike me dumb, — 
I tremble when they come 

Pit-a-pat : 
This palpitation means 
These boots are Geraldine's — 

Think of that! 

O where did hunter win 
So delicate a skin r 

For her feet? 
You lucky little kid, 
You perish'd, so you did, 

For my sweet. 

The faery stitching gleams 
On the sides, and in the seams, 
As it shows 


The Pixies were the wags 
Who tipt these funny tags, 
And these toes. 

What soles to charm an elf! 
Had Crusoe, sick of self, 

Chanced to view 
One printed near the tide, 
O, how hard he would have tried 

For the two ! 

For Gerry's debonair, 
And innocent, and fair 

As a rose; 
She's an angel in a frock, 
With a fascinating cock 

To her nose. 

The simpletons who squeeze 
Their extremities to please 


Would positively flinch , 
From venturing to pinch 

Cinderella's lefts and rights 
To Geraldine's were frights: 

And I trow, 
The damsel, deftly shod, 
Has dutifully trod 

Until now. 

Come, Gerry, since it suits 
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 

These to don, 
Set this dainty hand awhile 
On my shoulder, dear, and I'll 

Put them on. 
Frederick Locker-Lampson 



From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass 
Like little ripples down a sunny river; 
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, 
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever. 
Walter Savage Landor 



How many between east and west 
Disgrace their parent earth, 

Whose deeds constrain us to detest 
The day that gave them birth! 

Not so when Stella's natal morn 

Revolving months restore, 
We can rejoice that she was born, 

And wish her born once more! 

William Cowper 


Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 
With Dirce in one boat convey'd! 

Or Charon, seeing, may forget 
That he is old and she a shade. 

Waltek Savage Landor 



Permit me, Madame, to declare 
That I never will compare 
Eyes of yours to starlight cold, 
Or your locks to sunlight's gold, 
Or your lips, I'd have you know, 
To the crimson Jacqueminot. 

Stuff like that's all very fine 
When you get so much a line; 
Since I don't, I scorn to tell 
Flattering lies. I like too well 
Sun and stars and Jacqueminot 
To flatter them, I'd have you know. 
Oliver Herford 



Platonic friendship, at your years, 
Says Conscience, should content ye : 

Nay, name not fondness to her ears — 
The darling 's scarcely twenty. 

Yes ; and she '11 loathe me, unforgiven, 
To dote thus out of season; 

But beauty is a beam from heaven 
That dazzles blind our reason. 

I'll challenge Plato from the skies, 
Yes, from his spheres harmonic, 

To look in Mary Campbell's eyes 
And try to be Platonic. 

Thomas Campbell 


Never mind how the pedagogue proses, 
You want not antiquity's stamp; 

The lip, that such fragrance discloses, 
Oh! never should smell of the lamp. 

Old Chloe, whose withering kisses 
Have long set the Loves at defiance, 

Now, done with the science of blisses, 
May fly to the blisses of science! 

Young Sappho, for want of employments, 
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt, 

Condemned but to read of enjoyments, 
Which wiser Corinna had felt. 

But for you to be buried in books -. , 
Oh, Fanny! they're pitiful sages; 

Who could not in one of your looks 
Read more than in millions of pages! 

Astronomy finds in your eyes 

Better light than she studies above, 


And Music must borrow your sighs 
As the melody fittest for Love. 

In Ethics — 't is you that can check, 

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; 

Oh ! show but that mole on your neck, 

And 't will soon put an end to their morals. 

Your Arithmetic only can trip 

When to kiss and to count you endeavor; 
But eloquence glows on your lip 

When you swear that you'll love me forever. 

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance 

Of arts is assembled in you, — 
A course of more exquisite science 

Man need never wish to pursue. 

And, oh! — if a Fellow like me 

May confer a diploma of hearts, 

With my lip thus I seal your degree, 

My divine little Mistress of Arts ! 

Thomas Moore 


(fresh from her cambridge 

Lady, very fair are you, 
And your eyes are very blue, 

And your hose; 
And your brow is like the snow, 
And the various things you know 

Goodness knows. 

And the rose-flush on your cheek. 
And your Algebra and Greek 

Perfect are; 
And that loving lustrous eye 
Recognizes in the sky 

Every star. 

You have pouting piquant lips, 
You can doubtless an eclipse 


But for your cserulean hue, 
I had certainly from you 
Met my fate. 

If by an arrangement dual 

I were Adams mixed with Whewell, 

Then some day 
I, as wooer, perhaps might come 
To so sweet an Artium 


Mortimer Collins 


Oh, see how thick the goldcup flowers 

Are lying in field and lane, 
With dandelions to tell the hours 

That never are told again. 
Oh, may I squire you round the meads 

And pick you posies gay? 

— 'T will do no harm to take my arm. 
" You may, young man, you may." 

Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad, 

'T is now the blood runs gold, 
And man and maid had best be glad 

Before the world is old. 
What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow, 

But never as good as new. 

— Suppose I wound my arm right round — 
" 5 T is true, young man, 't is true." 



Some lads there are, 't is shame to say, 

That only court to thieve, 
And once they bear the bloom away 

'T is little enough they leave. 
Then keep your heart for men like me 

And safe from trustless chaps. 
My love is true and all for you. 

"Perhaps, young man, perhaps." 

Oh, look in my eyes then, can you doubt? 

— Why, 't is a mile from town. 
How green the grass is all about! 

We might as well sit down. 
— Ah, life, what is it but a flower? 

Why must true lovers sigh? 
Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty, — 

"Good-bye, young man, good-bye." 

A. E. Housman 



Locate your love, you lose your love; 

Find her, you look away . . . 
Though mine I never quite discern, 

I trace her every day. 

She has a thousand presences, 

As surely seen and heard 
As birds that hide behind a leaf 

Or leaves that hide a bird. 

Single your love, you lose your love, 
You cloak her face with clay; 

Now mine I never quite discern — 
And never look away. 

Witter Bynner 


Just a week more of waiting, a week and a day, 

And the night of delight will be here; 
So ply me your very best pinions, I pray, 
Wednesday, dear! 

We've considered the question, and find that 
I must 
Have arrived (beyond rational doubt) 
"Unto years of discretion," and that's why 
I'm just 

Coming out. 

So we 're giving a dance, to establish the fact 
That I'm one with the World and his Wife; 
And may join, if I choose, in the popular game 
Known as Life. 

Yes, we're giving a dance — on an excellent 
floor — 
To announce that I 've come on the scene, 


And that men for the future must say nothing 

Than they mean. 

And the dress I 'm to wear is a wonder of white, 

Suggesting a fugitive dove; 
And, I 'm happy to say, it embraces me quite 
Like a glove. 

And the household will come and inspect my 
While I try to look careless and bland, 
Like a hair-dresser's doll pirouetting away 
On a stand. 

And I fancy a bouquet in quite the best style 

From a gallant anonymous swain, 
Whose ingenuous blushes will render his guile 
Very vain. 

And I dream of the partners that Jump and 
that jig, 
An4 the couples that charge and chase; 


And the men who convey you about like a big 

And the fun is to last from a fit time for 
All the lovely night through up to five; 
Till the danc'd and the dancers are rather more 

Than alive. 

Then follows discussion, when every one 
Of the dresses and who wore what; 
Of the men who were perfect to dance with, 
and those 

Who were not. 

And at last and alone I shall probably scan 

My programme and gravely reflect 
That I've danced with one partner more fre- 
quently than 

Was correct. 


And the whole to conclude about noon the next 
With a stiffness and something of pique, 
To think that one cannot come out in this way 
Once a week. 

And the moral? — oh, bubbles will burst at a 
And I sha'n't be a child any more; 
Only sadder and wiser by ever so much 
Than before. 

Owen Seaman 



So runs the world away. — Hamlet. 

Good-night to the Season! 'T is over! 

Gay dwellings no longer are gay; 
The courtier, the gambler, the lover, 

Are scattered like swallows away : 
There's nobody left to invite one 

Except my good uncle and spouse; 
My mistress is bathing at Brighton, 

My patron is sailing at Cowes : 
For want of a better employment, 

Till Ponto and Don can get out, 
I'll cultivate rural enjoyment, 

And angle immensely for trout. 

Good-night to the Season ! — the lobbies, 
Their changes, and rumours of change, 

Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies, 
And made all the Bishops look strange; 

The breaches, and battles, and blunders, 
Performed by the Commons and Peers; 


The Marquis's eloquent thunders, 

The Baronet's eloquent ears; 
Denouncings of Papists and treasons, 

Of foreign dominion and oats; 
Misrepresentations of reasons, 

And misunderstandings of notes. 

Good-night to the Season ! — the buildings 

Enough to make Inigo sick; 
The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings 

Of stucco, and marble, and brick; 
The orders deliciously blended, 

From love of effect, into one; 
The club-houses only intended, 

The palaces only begun; 
The hell, where the fiend in his glory 

Sits staring at putty and stones, 
And scrambles from story to story, 

To rattle at midnight his bones. 

Good-night to the Season! — the dances, 
The fillings of hot little rooms, 



The glancings of rapturous glances, 

The fancy ings of fancy costumes; 
The pleasures which fashion makes duties, 

The praisings of fiddles and flutes, 
The luxury of looking at Beauties, 

The tedium of talking to mutes; 
The female diplomatists, planners 

Of matches for Laura and Jane; 
The ice of her Ladyship's manners, 

The ice of his Lordship's champagne. 

Good-night to the Season! — the rages 

Led off by the chiefs of the throng, 
The Lady Matilda's new pages, 

The Lady Eliza's new song; 
Miss Fennel's macaw, which at Boodle's 

Was held to have something to say; 
Mrs. Splenetic's musical poodles, 

Which bark "Batti Batti' 9 all day; 
The pony Sir Araby sported, 

As hot and as black as a coal, 



And the Lion his mother imported, 
In bearskins and grease, from the Pole. 

Good-night to the Season ! — the Toso, 

So very majestic and tall; 
Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so, 

And Pasta, divinest of all; 
The labour in vain of the ballet, 

So sadly deficient in stars; 
The foreigners thronging the Alley, 

Exhaling the breath of cigars; 
The loge where some heiress (how killing!) 

Environed with exquisites sits, 
The lovely one out of her drilling, 

The silly ones out of their wits. 

Good-night to the Season! — the splendour 
That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar; 

Where I purchased — my heart was so tender - 
A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, 

A bottle of perfume, a girdle, 

A lithographed Riego, full-grown, 


Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle 
That artists might draw him on stone; 

A small panorama of Seville, 
A trap for demolishing flies, 

A caricature of the Devil, 

And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes. 

Good-night to the Season ! — the flowers 

Of the grand horticultural fete, 
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers, 

And the fashion was — not to be late; 
When all who had money and leisure 

Grew rural o'er ices and wines, 
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure, 

All hungrily pining for pines, 
And making of beautiful speeches, 

And marring of beautiful shows, 
And feeding on delicate peaches, 

And treading on delicate toes. 

Good-night to the Season ! — Another 
Will come, with its trifles and toys, 


And hurry away, like its brother, 

In sunshine, and odour, and noise. 
Will it come with a rose or a briar? 

Will it come with a blessing or curse? 
Will its bonnets be lower or higher? 

Will its morals be better or worse? 
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter, 

Or fonder of wrong or of right, 
Or married — or buried? — no matter: 

Good-night to the Season — good-night! 




I go to concert, party, ball — 

What profit is in these? 
I sit alone against the wall, 

And strive to look at ease. 
The incense that is mine by right 

They burn before Her shrine; 
And that's because I'm seventeen 

And She is forty-nine. 

I cannot check my girlish blush. 

My colour comes and goes; 
I redden to my finger-tips, 

And sometimes to my nose; 
But She is white where white should be 

And red where red should shine — 
The blush that flies at seventeen 

Is fixed at forty-nine. 

I wish I had Her constant cheek: 
I wish that I could sing 



All sorts of funny little songs, 

Not quite the proper thing. 
I'm very gauche and very shy; 

Her jokes are n't in my line; 
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen, 

While she is forty-nine. 

The young men come, the young men go, 

Each pink and white and neat, 
She 's older than their mothers, but 

They grovel at Her feet; 
They walk beside Her 'rickshaw wheels — 

They never walk by mine; 
And that's because I'm seventeen 

And She is forty-nine. 

She rides with half a dozen men 

(She calls them "boys" and "mashers"); 
I trot along the Mall alone. 

My prettiest frocks and sashes 
Don't help to fill my pr#gramme-card, 

And vainly I repine 


From 10 to 2 a.m. Ah me! 
Would I were forty-nine! 

She calls me "darling," "pet," and 

And "sweet retiring maid." 
I'm always at the back, I know; 

She puts me in the shade. 
She introduces me to men, 

"Cast" lovers, I opine, 
For sixty takes to seventeen, 

Nineteen to forty-nine. 

But even She must older grow 

And end Her dancing days; 
She can't go on forever so 

At concerts, balls, and plays! 
One ray of priceless hope I see 

Before my footsteps shine: 
Just think that she'll be eighty-one 

When I am forty-nine. 

Rudyard Kipling 


Thus Kitty, beautiful and young, 

And wild as colt untamed, 
Bespoke the fair from which she sprung, 

With little rage inflamed : 

Inflamed with rage at sad restraint, 
Which wise mamma ordained, 

And sorely vex'd to play the saint, 
Whilst wit and beauty reign'd. 

"Shall I thumb holy books, confined 
With Abigails, forsaken? 
Kitty's for other things design'd, 
Or I am much mistaken. 

"Must Lady Jenny frisk about, 
And visit with her cousins? 
At balls must she make all the rout, 
And bring home hearts by dozens? 


"What has she better, pray, than I? 
What hidden charms to boast, 
That all mankind for her should die, 
Whilst I am scarce a toast? 

''Dearest mamma, for once let me, 
Unchain'd, my fortune try; 
I'll have my Earl as well as she, 
Or know the reason why. 

'I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score, 

Make all her lovers fall; 
They'll grieve I was not loosed before: 
She, I was loosed at all!" 

Fondness prevail'd, — mamma gave way : 

Kitty, at heart's desire, 
Obtain'd the chariot for a day, 

And set the world on fire. 

Matthew Phior 



Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty 
face ! 
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all un- 
curl'd : 
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and, as old Falstaff 
Let us e'er talk a little like folks of this 

How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to 

The beauties which Venus but lent to thy 

Those looks were design'd to inspire love and 


More ordinary eyes may serve people for 

To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ, 
Your judgment at once, and my passion, you 
wrong : 



You take that for fact, which will scarce be 
found wit; 
Ods life! must one swear to the truth of a 

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, 
The difference there is betwixt nature and 
1 court others in verse — but I love thee in 
And they have my whimsies — but thou 
hast my heart. 

The God of us verse-men (you know, child) 
the Sun, 

How after his journeys he sets up his rest : 
If at morning o'er Earth 't is his fancy to run; 

At night he declines on his Thetis' breast. 

So when I am wearied with wandering all day; 
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : 


No matter what beauties I saw in my way: 
They were but visits, but thou art my home. 

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war; 

And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; 
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, 

As he was a poet sublimer than me. 

Matthew Prior 



Why don't the men propose, mamma? 

Why don't the men propose? 
Each seems just coming to the point, 

And then away he goes! 
It is no fault of yours, mamma, 

That everybody knows; 
You fete the finest men in town, 

Yet, oh! they won't propose! 

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, 

To make a proper match; 
For coronets and eldest sons 

I'm ever on the watch; 
I've hopes when some distinguS beau 

A glance upon me throws; 
But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt, 

Alas! he won't propose! 

I've tried to win by languishing 
And dressing like a blue; 


I've bought big books, and talk'd of them 

As if I 'd read them through ! 
With hair cropped like a man, I've felt 

The heads of all the beaux; 
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, 

And, oh! they won't propose/ 

I threw aside the books, and thought • 

That ignorance was bliss; 
I felt convinced that men preferr'd 

A simple sort of Miss; 
And so I lisped out naught beyond 

Plain "Yeses" or plain "noes," 
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; 

Yet, oh! they won't propose! 

Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout, 

I heard Sir Harry Gale 
Exclaim, "Now I propose again!" 

I started, turning pale; 
I really thought my time was come, 

I blushed like any rose; 


But, oh! I found 't was only at 
Ecarte he'd propose! 

And what is to be done, mamma? 

Oh! what is to be done? 
I really have no time to lose, 

For I am thirty-one: 
At balls I am too often left 

Where spinsters sit in rows; 
Why won't the men propose, mamma? 

Why won't the men propose? 

Thomas Haynes Bayly 




"Phyllida amo ante alias." — Virgil 
The ladies of St. James's 

Go swinging to the play: 
Their footmen run before them, 

With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

She takes her buckled shoon, 
When we go out a-courting 

Beneath the harvest moon. 

The ladies of St. James's 

Wear satin on their backs; 
They sit all night at Ombre 

With candles all of wax. 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

She dons her russet gown, 
And runs to gather May dew 

Before the world is down. 


The ladies of St. James's ! 

They are so fine and fair, 
You'd think a box of essences 

Was broken in the air; 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

The breath of heath and furze, 
When breezes blow at morning, 

Is not so fresh as hers. 

The ladies of St. James's! 

They're painted to the eyes; 
Their white it stays for ever, 

Their red it never dies : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

Her colour comes and goes; 
It trembles to a lily, — 

It wavers to a rose. 

The ladies of St. James's! 

You scarce can understand 
The half of all their speeches, 

Their phrases are so grand : 


But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

Her shy and simple words 
Are clear as after rain-drops 

The music of the birds. 

The ladies of St. James's! 

They have their fits and freaks; 
They smile on you — for seconds, 

They frown on you — for weeks; 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

Come either storm or shine, 
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, 

Is always true — and mine. 

My Phyllida! my Phyllida! 

I care not though they heap 
The hearts of all St. James's, 

And give me all to keep; 
I care not whose the beauties 

Of all the world may be, 
For Phyllida — for Phyllida 

Is all the world to me! 

Austin Dob son 


Phyllis, you little rosy rake, 

That heart of yours I long to rifle : 

Come, give it me, and do not make 
So much ado about a trifle! 

Thomas Moore 



Thou saist thou lov'st me, Sapho; I say no; 
But would to Love I could beleeve 'twas so! 
Pardon my feares (sweet Sapho) I desire 
That thou be righteous found; and I the Lyer. 
Robert Herrick 



Her lips were so near 

That — what else could I do? 
You'll be angry, I fear. 
But her lips were so near — 
Well, I can't make it clear, 

Or explain it to you. 
But — her lips were so near 

That — what else could I do? 

Walter Learned 



When, full of warm and eager love, 
I clasp you in my fond embrace, 

You gently push me back and say, 

"Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace.' 

You kiss me just as you would kiss 

Some woman friend you chanced to see; 

You call me "dearest." — All love's forms 
Are yours, not its reality. 

Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave! 

Do anything with passion in it! 
Hate me an hour, and then turn round 

And love me truly, just one minute. 

William Wetmore Story 



Ay, 't was here, on this spot, 

In that summer of yore, 
Atalanta did not 

Vote my presence a bore, 
Nor reply, to my tenderest talk, "She had 
heard all that nonsense before.". 

She'd the brooch I had bought 

And the necklace and sash on, 
And her heart, as I thought, 
Was alive to my passion; 
And she 'd done up her hair in the style that 
the Empress had brought into fashion. 

I had been to the play 

With my pearl of a Peri — 
But, for all I could say, 

She declared she was weary, 
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and 
she could n't abide that Dundreary." 


Then I thought, "T is for me 

That she whines and she whimpers!' 
And it soothed me to see 
Those sensational simpers, , 
And I said, "This is scrumptious ! " — a phrase 
I had learned from the Devonshire 

And I vowed, "'T will be said 

I'm a fortunate fellow 
When the breakfast is spread, 
When the topers are mellow, 
When the foam of the bride-cake is white, 
and the fierce orange blossoms are 

Oh, that languishing yawn! 
Oh, those eloquent eyes! 
I was drunk with the dawn 
Of a splendid surmise — 
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by 
a tempest of sighs. 


And I whispered, "'T is time! 

Is not love at its deepest! 
Shall we squander life's prime, 
While thou waitest and weepest? 
Let us settle it, license or banns? — though 
undoubtedly banns are the cheapest.' ' 

"Ah, my Hero," said I, 

"Let me be thy Leander!" 
But I lost her reply — 

Something ending with "gander" — 
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal 
could quite understand her. 

Lewis Carroll 



I remember the time ere his temples were grey, 
And I frowned at the things he 'd the boldness 

to say, 
But now he 's grown old, he may say what he 

I laugh at his nonsense and take nothing ill. 

Indeed I must say he 's a little improved, 
For he watches no longer the "slily beloved/' 
No longer as once he awakens my fears, 
Not a glance he perceives, not a whisper he 

If he heard one of late, it has never transpired, 
For his only delight is to see me admired; 
And now pray what better return can I make, 
Than to flirt and be always admired — for his 

Walter Savage Landor 


Full thirty frosts since thou wert young 
Have chiird the wither'd grove, 

Thou wretch ! and hast thou lived so long 
Nor yet forgot to love! 

Ye Sages ! spite of your pretences 

To wisdom, you must own 
Your folly frequently commences 

When you acknowledge none. , 

Not that I deem it weak to love, 

Or folly to admire; 
But, ah! the pangs we lovers prove 

Far other years require. 

Unheeded on the youthful brow 

The beams of Phoebus play; 
But unsupported Age stoops low 

Beneath the sultry ray. 


For once, then, if untutor'd youth, 
Youth unapproved by years, 

May chance to deviate into truth, 
When your experience errs; 

For once attempt not to despise 

What I esteem a rule : 
Who early loves, though young, is 
wise, — 
Who old, though gray, a fool. 

William Cowper 



Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, 
Alcestis rises from the shades; 

Verse calls them forth; 't is verse that 
Immortal youth to mortal maids. 

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil 
Hide all the peopled hills you see, 

The gay, the proud, while lovers hail 
These many summers you and me. 
Walter Savage Landor 



Tell me, perverse young year! 
Why is the morn so drear? 

Is there no flower to twine? 
Away, thou churl, away! 
'T is Rose's natal day, 

Reserve thy frowns for mine. 

Walter Savage Landor 



Canst thou love me, lady? 

I ' ve not learn'd to woo : 
Thou art on the shady 

Side of sixty too. 
Still I love thee dearly ! 

Thou hast lands and pelf: 
But I love thee merely, 

Merely for thyself. 

Will you love me, fairest? 

Though thou art not fair; 
And I think thou wearest 

Someone-else's hair. 
Thou could'st love, though, dearly: 

And, as I am told, 
Thou art very nearly 

Worth thy weight in gold. 

Dost thou love me, sweet one? 
Tell me that thou dost! 


Women fairly beat one, 
But I think thou must. 

Thou art loved so dearly: 
I am plain, but then 

Thou (to speak sincerely) 
Art as plain again. 

Love me, bashful fairy! 

I've an empty purse: 
And I've "moods," which vary; 

Mostly for the worst. 
Still I love thee dearly: 

Though I make (I feel) 
Love a little queerly, 

I'm as true as steel. 

Love me, swear to love me 
(As, you know, they do) 

By yon heaven above me 
And its changeless blue. 

Love me, lady, dearly, 
If you '11 be so good ; 


Though I don't see clearly 
On what ground you should. 

Love me — ah! or love me 

Not, but be my bride! 
Do not simply shove me 

(So to speak) aside! 
P'raps it would be dearly 

Purchased at the price; 
But a hundred yearly 

Would be very nice. 
Charles Stuart Calverley 



Comment! cest lui? que je le regarde encore! C'est 
que vraiment il est Men change; nest-ce pas, mon papa? 
— Les Premiers Amours. 

You'll come to our Ball; — since we parted, 

I've thought of you more than I'll say; 
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted 

For a week, when they took you away. 
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers 

Our walks on the Ness and the Den, 
And echoed the musical numbers 

Which you used to sing to me then. 
I know the romance, since it's over, 

'T were idle, or worse, to recall; 
I know you're a terrible rover; 

But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball! 

It's only a year, since, at College, 
You put on your cap and your gown; 


But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowl- 

And changed from the spur to the crown : 
The voice that was best when it faltered 

Is fuller and firmer in tone, 
And the smile that should never have altered — 

Dear Clarence — it is not your own : 
Your cravat was badly selected; 

Your coat don't become you at all; 
And why is your hair so neglected? 

You must have it curled for our Ball. 

I've often been out upon Haldon 

To look for a covey with pup; 
I 've often been over to Shaldon, 

To see how your boat is laid up: 
In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 

I've ridden the filly you broke; 
And I ' ve studied your sweet little Dante 

In the shade of your favourite oak: 
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 

I sat in your love of a shawl; 


And I '11 wear what you brought me from 
Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. 

You'll find us all changed since you 

We've set up a National School; 
And waltzing is utterly banished, 

And Ellen has married a fool; 
The Major is going to travel, 

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, 
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, 

Papa is laid up with the gout; 
And Jane has gone on with her easels, 

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; " 
And Fanny is sick with the measles, — 

And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 

You'll meet all your Beauties; the Lily, 
And the Fairy of "Willowbrook Farm, 

And Lucy, who made me so silly 
At Dawlish, by taking your arm; 



Miss Manners, who always abused you 

For talking so much about Hock, 
And her sister, who often amused you 

By raving of rebels and Rock; 
And something which surely would answer, 

An heiress quite fresh from Bengal; 
So, though you were seldom a dancer, 

You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. 

But out on the World! from the flowers 

It shuts out the sunshine of truth: 
It blights the green leaves in the 

It makes an old age of our youth; 
And the flow of our feeling, once in it, 

Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, 
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, 

Grows harder by sudden degrees : 
Time treads o'er the graves of affection; 

Sweet honey is turned into gall; 
Perhaps you have no recollection 

That ever you danced at our Ball! 


You once could be pleased with our bal- 
lads, — 

To-day you have critical ears; 
You once could be charmed with our salads — 

Alas! you've been dining with Peers; 
You trifled and flirted with many, — 

You've forgotten the when and the how; 
There was one you liked better than any, — 

Perhaps you've forgotten her now. 
But of those you remember most newly, 

Of those who delight or enthrall, 
None love you a quarter so truly 

As some you will find at our Ball. 

They tell me you've many who flatter, 

Because of your wit and your song: 
They tell me — and what does it matter? — 

You like to be praised by the throng : 
They tell me you're shadowed with laurel: 

They tell me you're loved by a Blue: 
They tell me you 're sadly immoral — 

Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! 


But to me, you are still what I found you, 

Before you grew clever and tall; 
And you '11 think of the spell that once bound 
And you'll come — won't you come? — to 
our Ball! 




My love she leans from the window 

Afar in a rosy land; 
And red as a rose are her blushes, 

And white as a rose her hand. 

And the roses cluster around her, 
And mimic her tender grace; 

And nothing but roses can blossom 
Wherever she shows her face. 

I dwell in a land of winter, 

From my love a world apart — 

But the snow blooms over with roses 
At the thought of her in my heart. 

This German style of poem 

Is uncommonly popular now; 
For the worst of us poets can do it — 
Since Heine showed us how. 

Henry Cuyler Bunner 


Had we but world enough, and time, 
This coyness, lady, were no crime. 
We would sit down, and think which way 
To walk, and pass our long love's day. 
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side 
Shouldst rubies find : I by the tide 
Of Humber would complain. I would 
Love you ten years before the flood, 
And you should, if you please, refuse 
Till the conversion of the Jews; 
My vegetable love should grow 
Vaster than empires and more slow; 
An hundred years should go to praise 
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; 
Two hundred to adore each breast, 
But thirty thousand to the rest; 
An age at least to every part, 
And the last age should show your heart, 
^air lady, you deserve this state, 


Nor would I love at lower rate. 

But at my back I always hear 
Time's winged chariot hurrying near, 
And yonder all before us lie 
Deserts of vast eternity, 
Thy beauty shall no more be found, 
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 
My echoing song; then worms shall try 
Thy long-preserved virginity, 
And your quaint honour turn to dust, 
And into ashes all my lust: 
The grave 's a fine and private place, 
But none, I think, do there embrace. 

Now therefore, while the youthful hue 
Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 
And while thy willing soul transpires 
At every pore with instant fires, 
Now let us sport us while we may, 
And now, like amorous birds of prey, 
Rather at once our time devour, 
Than languish in his slow-shapt power. 
Let us roll all our strength and all 


Our sweetness up into one ball, 

And tear our pleasures with rough strife, 

Through the iron gates of life; 

Thus, though we cannot make our sun 

Stand still, yet we will make him run. 

Andrew Marvell 



I sent my love two roses, — one 

As white as driven snow, 
And one a blushing royal red, 

A flaming Jacqueminot. 

I meant to touch and test my fate; 

That night I should divine, 
The moment I should see my love, 

If her true heart were mine. 

For if she holds me dear, I said, 
She'll wear my blushing rose; 

If not, she '11 wear my cold Lamarque, 
As white as winter's snows. 

My heart sank when I met her : sure 

I had been overbold, 
For on her breast my pale rose lay 

In virgin whiteness cold. 


Yet with low words she greeted me, 
With smiles divinely tender; 

Upon her cheek the red rose dawned, — 
The white rose meant surrender. 

John Hat 



"Les temps le mieux employe est celui quon perd." — 

Claude Tillier 

I'd read three hours. Both notes and text 

Were fast a mist becoming; 
In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, 

And filled the room with humming. 

Then out. The casement's leafage sways, 

And, parted light, discloses 
Miss Di., with hat and book, — a maze 

Of muslin mixed with roses. 

"You're reading Greek?" "I am — and 

"O, mine's a mere romancer!" 
"So Plato is." "Then read him — do; 

And I'll read mine in answer." 

I read. "My Plato (Plato, too, — 

That wisdom thus should harden!) 


Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue 
Beneath a Dolly Varden.'" 

She smiled. "My book in turn avers 
(No author's name is stated) 

That sometimes those Philosophers 
Are sadly mistranslated." 

"But hear, — the next's in stronger style: 

The Cynic School asserted 
That two red lips which part and smile 

May not be controverted!" 

She smiled once more — "My book, I find, 
Observes some modern doctors 

Would make the Cynics out a kind 
Of album-verse concoctors." 

Then I — "Why not? 'Ephesian law, 
No less than time's tradition, 

Enjoined fair speech on all who saw 
DIANA'S apparition.' " 


She blushed — this time. "If Plato's page 

No wiser precept teaches, 
Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, 

And walk to Burnham-beechcs." 

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates 

(I find he too is talking) 
Thinks Learning can't remain at ease 

While Beauty goes a-walking." 

She read no more. I leapt the sill : 
The sequel 's scarce essential — 

Nay, more than this, I hold it still 
Profoundly confidential. 

Austin Dobson 



Though the voice of modern schools 

Has demurred, 
By the dreamy Asian creed 

'T is averred, 
That the souls of men, released 
From their bodies when deceased, 
Sometimes enter in a beast, — 

Or a bird. 

I have watched you long, Avice, — 
Watched you so, 

I have found your secret out; 
And I know 

That the restless ribboned things, 

Where your slope of shoulder springs, 

Are but undeveloped wings 
That will grow. 

When you enter in a room, 

It is stirred 
With the wayward, flashing flight 

Of a bird; 


And you speak — and bring with you 
Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, 
And the wind-breath and the dew. 
At a word. 

When you called to me my name, 

Then again 
When I heard your single cry 

In the lane, 
All the sound was as the "sweet" 
Which the birds to birds repeat 
In their thank-song to the heat 

After rain. 

When you sang the Schwalbenlied, 
'T was absurd, — 

But it seemed no human note 
That I heard; 

For your strain had all the trills, 

All the little shakes and stills, 

Of the over-song that rills 
From a bird. 


You have just their eager, quick 

"Airs de tete" 
All their flush and fever-heat 

When elate; 
Every bird-like nod and beck, 
And a bird's own curve of neck 
When she gives a little peck 

To her mate. 

When you left me, only now, 

In that furred, 
Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, 

I was spurred 
Just to catch you, O my sweet, 
By the bodice trim and neat, — 
Just to feel your heart abeat, 

Like a bird. 

Yet, alas! Love's light you deign 

But to wear 
As the dew upon your plumes, 

And you care 


Not a whit for rest or hush; 
But the leaves, the lyric gush, 
And the wing-power, and the rush 
Of the air. 

So I dare not woo you, Sweet, 

For a day, 
Lest I lose you in a flash, 

As I may; 
Did I tell you tender things, 
You would shake your sudden wings; — 
You would start from him who sings, 

And away. 

Austin Dobson 



Although I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover: 
And near the sacred gate 
With longing eyes I wait 

Expectant of her. 

The Minster bells ring out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming: 
They've hushed the Minster bell; 
The organ 'gins to swell : 

She's coming, she's coming! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid, and stepping fast, 

And hastening hither, 
With modest eyes downcast: 
She comes — she's here — she's 
past — 
May Heaven go with her! 


Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your poor prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute 
Like outcast spirits who wait 
And see through heaven's gate 

Angels within it. 
William Makepeace Thackeray 



When Man, expelPd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger'd near the gate, 

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes, 
He learnt to bear his load of grief; 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady ! will it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no more; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 

Escaping from temptation's snare; 
I cannot view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there. 

Lord Byron 


I read to her, one summer day, 

A little mythologic story 
About the maid who laughed at love, 

And ran a race for love and glory. 

I closed the book. She raised her eyes 
And hushed the song she had been 
humming ; 

Glancing across the shady lawn, 
I saw my wealthy rival coming. 

"These ancient tales," I gravely said, 
"With meaning wise are often laden; 

And Atalanta well may stand 

As type of many a modern maiden. 

"Minus, of course, the classic scandal, 
But with no less of nimble grace, 

How many dainty slippered feet 
Are running now that self-same race! 


"And when Hippomenes casts down 

His golden apples, is there ever 
A chance for Love to reach the goal?" 

With saucy smile, she answered, "Never." 

I rose to go — she took my hand 

(O, Fate, you ne'er that clasp can sever!) 

And, "Stay," she said, with sudden blush, — 
"You know that I meant — 'hardly ever.'" 
Eliza C. Hall 



Sweet Nea! for your lovely sake 

I weave these rambling numbers, 
Because I've lain an hour awake, 

And can't compose my slumbers. 
Because your beauty's gentle light 

Is round my pillow beaming, 
And flings, I know not why, to-night, 

Some witchery o'er my dreaming. 

Because we've'pass'd some joyous days, 

And danced some merry dances; 
Because we love old Beaumont's plays, 

And old Froissart's romances ! 
Because whene'er I hear your words 

Some pleasant feeling lingers; 
Because I think your heart has cords 

That vibrate to your fingers. 

Because you've got those long, soft curls, 
I've sworn should deck my goddess; 


Because you 're not, like other girls, 
All bustle, blush, and bodice; 

Because your eyes are deep and blue, 
Your fingers long and rosy; 

Because a little child and you 
Would make one's home so cosy. 

Because your tiny little nose 

Turns up so pert and funny; 
Because I know you choose your beaux 

More for their mirth than money; 
Because I think you 'd rather twirl 

A waltz, — with me to guide you, 
Than talk small nonsense with an earl, 

And a coronet beside you. 

Because you don't object to walk, 
And are not given to fainting; 

Because you have not learnt to talk 
Of flowers and Poonah-painting; 

Because I think you 'd scarce refuse 
To sew one on a button; 


Because I know you'd sometimes choose 
To dine on simple mutton 

Because I think I'm just so weak 

As, some of those fine morrows, 
To ask you if you'll let me speak 

My story — and my sorrows; 
Because the rest's a simple thing, 

A matter quickly over, 
A church — a priest — a sigh — a ring — 

And a chaise and four to Dover. 

Edward Fitzgerald 



Dear Priscilla, quaint and very 

Like a modern Puritan, 
Is a modest, literary, 

Merry young American: 
Horace she has read, and Bion 

Is her favorite in Greek; 
Shakespeare is a mighty lion 

In whose den she dares but peek; 
Him she leaves to some sage Daniel, 

Since of Lions she's afraid, — 
She prefers a playful spaniel, 

Such as Herrick or as Praed; 
And it's not a bit satiric 

To confess her fancy goes 
From the epic to a lyric 

On a rose. 

Wise Priscilla, dilettante, 
With a sentimental mind, 


Does n't deign to dip in Dante, 

And to Milton is n't kind; 
L' Allegro, II Penseroso 

Have some merits she will grant, 
All the rest is only so-so, — 

Enter Paradise she can't! 
She might make a charming angel 

(And she will if she is good), 
But it's doubtful if the change '11 

Make the Epic understood: 
Honey-suckling, like a bee she 

Goes and pillages his sweets, 
And it's plain enough to see she 

Worships Keats. 

Gay Priscilla, — just the person 
For the Locker whom she loves; 

What a captivating verse on 
Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves 

He could write in catching measure, 
Setting all the heart astir! 



And to Aldrich what a pleasure 

It would be to sing of her, — 
He, whose perfect songs have won her 

Lips to quote them day by day. 
She repeats the rhymes of Bunner 

In a fascinating way, 
And you 11 often find her lost in — 

She has reveries at times — 
Some delightful one of Austin 

Dobson's rhymes. 

Priscilla, sweet Priscilla, 
Writing of you makes me think, 

As I burn my brown Manila 

And immortalize my ink, 
How well satisfied these poets 

Ought to be with what they do 
When, especially, they know it's 

Read by such a girl as you: 

1 who sing of you would marry 
Just the kind of girl you are, — 



One who does n't care to carry 
Her poetic taste too far, — 

One whose fancy is a bright one, 
Who is fond of poems fine, 

And appreciates a light one 
Such as mine. 

Frank Dempster Sherman 



When Venus said: "Spell no for me," 
"N-0," Dan Cupid wrote with glee, 

And smiled at his success; 
"Ah, child," said Venus, laughing low, 
"We women do not spell it so, 

We spell it Y-E-S." 

Carolyn Wells 



An angel at noon, she 's a woman at night, 

All softness, and sweetness, and love, and delight 

The glow and the glory are plighted 
To darkness, for evening is come; 

The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, 
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. 

I 'm alone at my casement, for Pappy 
Is summoned to dinner to Kew: 

I'm alone, dearest Fred, but I'm happy — 
I'm thinking of you. 

I wish you were here! Were I duller 

Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; 
I am drest in your favorite colour — 

Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! 
I'm wearing my lazuli necklace, 

The necklace you fasten'd askew! 
Was there ever so rude or so reckless 
A darling as you? 


I want you to come and pass sentence 
On two or three books with a plot; 

Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? 
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 

The story of Edgar and Lucy, 

How thrilling, romantic, and true! 

The Master (his bride was a goosey!) 
Reminds me of you. 

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning 

A poet whose garland endures; 
It was you who first spouted me Browning, — 

That stupid old Browning of yours! 
His vogue and his verve are alarming, 

I'm anxious to give him his due, 
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 
A poet as you! 

1 know how you shot at the Beeches, 

I saw how you rode Chanticleer y 
I have heard the report of your speeches, 

And echo'd the echoing cheer. 


There 's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, 

Dear Fred, I believe it, I do ! 
Small marvel that Fashion is making 
Her idol of you. 

Alas for the world, and its dearly 
Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss; 

Sometimes I half wish I were merely 
A plain or a penniless miss; 

But, perhaps, one is best "with a measure 
Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, 

That I'm pretty, because 't is a pleasure, 
My darling, to you! 

Your whim is for frolic and fashion, 

Your taste is for letters and art; — 
This rhyme is the commonplace passion 
That glows in a fond woman's heart: 
Lay it by in a dainty deposit 

For relics — we all have a few ! 
Love, some day they'll print it, because it 
Was written to you. 

Frederick Locker-Lampson 


That 't is well to be off with the old love 
Before one is on with the new 

Has somehow passed into a proverb — 
But I never have found it true. 

No love can be quite like the old love, 
Whate'er may be said for the new — 

And if you dismiss me, my darling, 
You may come to this thinking, too. 

Were the proverb not wiser if mended, 
And the fickle and wavering told 

To be sure they're on with the new love 
Before they are off with the old? 

Charles Henry Webb 



Lyrics to Ines and Jane, 
Dolores and Ethel and May; 

Sefioritas distant as Spain, 
And damsels just over the way! 

It is not that I'm jealous, not that, 

Of either Dolores and Jane, 
Of some girl in an opposite flat, 

Or in one of his castles in Spain. 

But it is that salable prose 

Put aside for this profitless strain, 

I sit the day darning his hose — 
And he sings of Dolores and Jane. 

Though the winged-horse must caracole 
free — 
With the pretty, when "spurning the 



Should the team-work fall wholly on me 
While he soars with Dolores and Jane? 

I am neither Dolores nor Jane, 
But to lighten a little my life 

Might the poet not spare me a strain — • 
Although I am only his wife! 

Charles Henry Webb 



"the case is proceeding" 

From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's — ■ 
At least, on a practical plan — 

To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, 
One love is enough for a man. 

But no case that I ever yet met is 
Like mine : I am equally fond 

Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, 
And Dora, a blonde. 

Each rivals the other in powers — 
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints - 

Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; 
Miss Do., perpendicular saints. 

In short, to distinguish is folly; 

'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass 

Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly. — 
Or Buridan's ass. 

If it happens that Rosa I 've singled 
For a soft celebration in rhyme, 


Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled 
Somehow with the tune and the time; 

Or I painfully pen me a sonnet 
To an eyebrow intended for Do/s, 

And behold I am writing upon it 
The legend "To Rose." 

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter 
Is all overscrawled with her head), 

If I fancy at last that I've got her, 
It turns to her rival instead; 

Or if I find myself placidly adding 
To the rapturous tresses of Rose 

Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding, 
Ineffable nose. 

Was there ever so sad a dilemma? 

For Rose I would perish (pro tern.) ; 
For Dora I'd willingly stem a — 

(Whatever might offer to stem) ; 
But to make the invidious election, — 

To declare that on either one's side 


I ' ve a scruple, — a grain, more affection, 
I cannot decide* 

And, as either so hopelessly nice is, 

My sole and my final resource 
Is to wait some indefinite crisis, — 

Some feat of molecular force, 
To solve me this riddle conducive 

By no means to peace or repose, 
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive 
Of Dora and Rose. 


But perhaps, if a third (say a Norah), 
Not quite so delightful as Rose, — 
Not wholly so charming as Dora, — 

Should appear, is it wrong to suppose, — 
As the claims of the others are equal, — 

And flight — in the main — is the best, — 
That I might. . . . But no matter — the sequel 
Is easily guessed. 

Austin Dobson 


Oh, I would live in a dairy, 
And it 's Colin I would be, 

And many a rustic fairy 

Should churn the milk with me. 

Or the fields should be my pleasure, 
And my flocks should follow me, 

Piping a frolic measure 
For Joan or Marjorie. 

For the town is black and weary, 
And I hate the London street; 

But the country ways are cheery, 
And country lanes are sweet. 

Good luck to you, Paris ladies! 

Ye are over fine and nice, 
I know where the country maid is, 

Who needs not asking twice. 


Ye are brave in your silks and satins, 
As ye mince about the Town; 

But her feet go free in pattens, 
If she wear a russet gown. 

If she be not queen or goddess 

She shall milk my brown-eyed herds, 

And the breasts beneath her bodice 
Are whiter than her curds. 

So I will live in a dairy, 

And it 's Colin I will be, 
And it's Joan that I will marry, 

Or, haply, Marjorie. 

Ernest Dowson 



I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon! 
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess) 
It may be Prester John's balloon 
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft 
To light poor travellers to their distress." 
She then: "How you digress!" 

And I then : " Some one frames upon the keys 
That exquisite nocturne, with which we ex- 
The night and moonshine; music which we 

To body forth our vacuity." 

She then: "Does this refer to me?" 
"Oh, no, it is I who am insane." 

"You, madam, are the eternal humorist, 
The eternal enemy of the absolute, 


Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist! 
With your aid indifferent and imperious 
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute — " 
And — "Are we then so serious?" 

T. S. Eliot 



Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Or better than the rest; 
For I would change each hour, like them, 

Were not my heart at rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 

By every thought I have: 
Thy face I only care to see, 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored 

In thy dear self I find — 
For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store, 

And still make love anew? 
When change itself can give no more, 
'T is easy to be true. 

Sir Charles Sedley 


The merchant, to secure his treasure, 
Conveys it in a borrow'd name: 

Euphelia serves to grace my measure; 
But Chloe is my real flame. 

My softest verse, my darling lyre, 

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; 
When Chloe noted her desire, 

That I should sing, that I should play. 

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; 

But whilst my numbers mix my sighs : 
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 

I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. 

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: 

I sung and gazed: I play'd and trembled: 
And Venus to the Loves around 

Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled. 

Matthew Prior 


Love me, sweet, with all thou art, 
Feeling, thinking, seeing; 

Love me in the lightest part, 
Love me in full being. 

Love me with thine open youth 

In its frank surrender, 
With the vowing of thy mouth, 

With its silence tender. 

Love me with thine azure eyes, 
Made for earnest granting; 

Taking color from the skies, 

Can heaven's truth be wanting? 

Love me with their lids, that fall 
Snow-like at first meeting; 

Love me with thine heart, that all 
Neighbors then see beating. 


Love me with thine hand stretched out 

Freely, open minded; 
Love me with thy loitering foot, 

Nearing one behind it. 

Love me with thy voice, that turns 

Sudden faint above me; 
Love me with thy blush, that burns 

When I murmur, Love me! 

Love me with thy thinking soul, 

Break it to love-sighing; 
Love me with thy thoughts that roll 

On through living — dying. 

Love me in thy gorgeous airs, 

When the world had crowned thee; 

Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, 
With the angels round thee. 

Love me pure, as musers do, 
Up the woodlands shady; 


Love me gayly, fast, and true, 
As a winsome lady. 

Through all hopes that keep us brave, 

Farther off or nigher; 
Love me for the house and grave — 

And for something higher. 

Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear, 

Woman's love no fable, 
I will love thee — half a year — 

As a man is able. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 



"She is not fair to outward view"; 

No beauty hers of form or face; 
She hath no witchery, 't is true, 
No grace. 

Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind, 

Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair 
Hath she. She is — I am not blind — 
Not fair. 

What makes me love her, then? say you, 

For such a maid is not my wont. 
Love her! What makes you think I do? 
I don't. 

Franklin P. Adams 



The turtle on yon withered bough, 

That lately mourned her murdered mate, 

Has found another comrade now — 

Such changes all await! 

Again her drooping plume is drest. 

Again she's willing to be blest 

And takes her lover to her nest. 

If nature has decreed it so 
With all above, and all below, 
Let us like them forget our woe, 

And not be killed with sorrow. 
If I should quit your arms to-night 
And chance to die before 't was light, 
I would advise you — and you might — 

Love again to-morrow. 

Philip Freneau 



Out upon it, I have loved 
Three whole days together; 

And am like to love three more, — 
If it prove fine weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings, 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me; 
Love with me had made no stays 

Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she, 

And that very face, 
There had been at least, ere this, 
A dozen in her place! 

Sir John Suckling 


'T is not your beauty nor your wit 

That can my heart obtain, 
For they could never conquer yet 

Either my breast or brain; 
For if you '11 not prove kind to me, 

And true as heretofore, 
Henceforth I '11 scorn your slave to be, 

And doat on you no more. 

Think not my fancy to o'ercome 

By proving thus unkind; 
No smothered sigh, nor smiling frown, 

Can satisfy my mind. 
Pray let Platonics play such pranks, 

Such follies I deride; 
For love at least I will have thanks, — 

And something else beside! 

Then open-hearted be with me, 
As I shall be, I vow, 


And let our actions be as free 

As virtue will allow. 
If you '11 prove loving, I '11 prove kind, — 

If constant, I'll be true; 
If Fortune chance to change your mind, 

I'll turn as soon as you. 

Since our affections well ye know, 

In equal terms do stand, 
'T is in your power to love or no, 

Mine's likewise in my hand. 
Dispense with your austerity, 

Inconstancy abhor, 
Or, by great Cupid's deity, 

I '11 never love thee more. 




"Gentle, modest, little flower, 

Sweet epitome of May, 
Love me but for half-an-hour, 

Love me, love me, little fay." 
Sentences so fiercely flaming 

In your tiny shell-like ear, 
I should always be exclaiming 

If I loved you, Phcebe, dear. 

"Smiles that thrill from any distance 

Shed upon me while I sing ! 
Please ecstaticise existence, 

Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!" 
Words like these, outpouring sadly, 

You 'd perpetually hear, 
If I loved you, fondly, madly; — 

But I do not, Phcebe, dear. 

William Schwenck Gilbert 



The marriage bells have rung their peal, 

The wedding march has told its story. 
I've seen her at the altar kneel 

In all her stainless, virgin glory; 
She's bound to honor, love, obey, 

Come joy or sorrow, tears or laughter. 
I watched her as she rode away, 

And flung the lucky slipper after. 

She was my first, my very first, 

My earliest inamorata, 
And to the passion that I nursed 

For her I well-nigh was a martyr. 
For I was young and she was fair, 

And always bright and gay and chipper, 
And, oh, she wore such sunlit hair! 

Such silken stockings! such a slipper! 

She did not wish to make me mourn — 
She was the kindest of God's creatures; 


But flirting was in her inborn, 

Like brains and queerness in the Beechers. 
I do not fear your heartless flirt, 

Obtuse her dart and dull her probe is; 
But when girls do not mean to hurt, 

But do — Orate tunc pro nobis! 

A most romantic country place; 

The moon at full, the month of August; 
An inland lake across whose face 

Played gentle zephyrs, ne'er a raw gust. 
Books, boats, and horses to enjoy, 

The which was all our occupation; 
A damsel and a callow boy — 

There! now you have the situation. 

We rode together miles and miles, 
My pupil she, and I her Chiron; 

At home I revelled in her smiles 
And read her extracts out of Byron. 

We rode by moonlight, chose our stars 
(I thought it most authentic billing), 


Explored the woods, climbed over bars, 
Smoked cigarettes and broke a shilling. 

An infinitely blissful week 

Went by in this Arcadian fashion; 
I hesitated long to speak, 

But ultimately breathed my passion. 
She said her heart was not her own; 

She said she'd love me like a sister; 
She cried a little (not alone), 

I begged her not to fret, and — kissed her. 

I lost some sleep, some pounds in weight, 

A deal of time and all my spirits, 
And much, how much I dare not state, 

I mused upon that damsel's merits. 
I tortured my unhappy soul, 

I wished I never might recover; 
I hoped her marriage bells might toll 

A requiem for her faithful lover. 

And now she's married, now she wears 
A wedding-ring upon her finger; 


And I — although it odd appears — 
Still in the flesh I seem to linger. 

Lo, there my swallow-tail, and here 
Lies by my side a wedding-favor; 

Beside it stands a mug of beer, 
I taste it — how divine its flavor! 

I saw her in her bridal dress 

Stand pure and lovely at the altar; 
I heard her firm response — that "Yes," 

Without a quiver or a falter. 
And here I sit and drink to her 

Long life and happiness, God bless her! 
Now fill again. No heel-taps, sir; 

Here's to — Success to her successor! 
Edward Sandford Martin 



When Love is kind, 
Cheerful and free, 

Love's sure to find 
Welcome from me. 

But when Love brings 
Heartache or pang, 

Tears, and such things — 
Love may go hang! 

If love can sigh 

For one alone, 
Well pleased am I 

To be that one. 

But should I see 
Love given to rove 

To two or three, 

Then — good-bye, Love! 


Love must, in short, 

Keep fond and true, 
Through good report, 

And evil too. 

Else, here I swear, 

Young Love may go, 
For aught I care — 

To Jericho. 

Thomas Moore 



I say it unaer the rose — 

Oh, thanks ! — yes, under the laurel, 
We part lovers, not foes : 

We are not going to quarrel. 

We have too long been friends 
On foot and in gilded coaches, 

Now that the whole thing ends, 
To spoil our kiss with reproaches. 

I leave you; my soul is wrung; 

I pause, look back from the portal — 
Ah, I no more am young, 

And you, child, you are immortal ! 

Mine is the glacier's way, 
Yours is the blossom's weather — 

When were December and May 
Known to be happy together? 


Before my kisses grow tame, 

Before my moodiness grieve you, 

While yet my heart is flame, 
And I all lover, I leave you. 

So, in the coming time, 

When you count the rich years over, 
Think of me in my prime, 

And not as a white-haired lover. 

Fretful, pierced with regret, 
The wraith of a dead Desire 

Thrumming a cracked spinet 
By a slowly dying fire. 

When, at last, I am cold — 

Years hence, if the gods so will it — 
Say, "He was true as gold," 

And wear a rose in your fillet! 

Others, tender as I, 

Will come and sue for caresses, 


Woo you, win you, and die — 
Mind you, a rose in your tresses! 

Some Melpomeue woo, 

Some hold Clio the nearest; 

You, sweet Comedy — you 

Were ever sweetest and dearest! 

Nay, it is time to go. 

When writing your tragic sister 
Say to that child of wx>e 

How sorry I was I missed her. 

Really I cannot stay, 

Though "parting is such sweet 
sorrow" . . . 
Perhaps I will, on my way 

Down-town, look in to-morrow! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich 



I could resign that eye of blue 

Howe'er its splendour used to thrill me; 

And ev'n that cheek of roseate hue, — 
To lose it, Chloe, scarce would kill me. 

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, 
However much I've raved about it; 

And sweetly as that lip can kiss, 
I think I could exist without it. 

In short, so well I've learned to fast, 

That, sooth my love, I know not whether 

1 might not bring myself at last, 
To — do without you altogether. 

Thomas Moore 



Short and sweet, and we've come to the end 
of it — 
Our poor little love lying cold. 
Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it? 

Nor the joys and pains of it told? 
How fair was its face in the morning, 

How close its caresses at noon, 
How its evening grew chill without warning, 
Unpleasantly soon! 

I can't say just how we began it — 

In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh; 

Fate took but an instant to plan it; 

It needs but a moment to die. 
Yet — we remember the first conversation, 
When the flowers you had dropped at your 
I restored. The familiar quotation 

Was — "Sweets to the sweet." 


Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted 
My senses a whole season through. 

If there was one soft charm that you wanted 
The violets lent it to you. 

I whispered you, life was but lonely: 
A cue which you graciously took; 

And your eyes learned a look for me only — 
A very nice look. 

And sometimes your hand would touch my 
With a sweetly particular touch; 
You said many things in a sigh, and 

Made a look express wondrously much. 
We smiled for the mere sake of smiling, 

And laughed for no reason but fun; 
Irrational joys; but beguiling — 
And all that is done! 

We were idle, and played for a moment 
At a game that now neither will press : 

I cared not to find out what "No" meant; 
Nor your lips to grow yielding with "Yes." 


Love is done with and dead; if there lingers 

A faint and indefinite ghost, 

It is laid with this kiss on your fingers — 

A jest at the most. 

'T is a commonplace, stale situation, 

Now the curtain comes down from above 
On the end of our little flirtation — 

A travesty romance; for Love, 
If he climbed in disguise to your lattice, 

Fell dead of the first kisses' pain : 
But one thing is left us now; that is — 
Begin it again. 

Henry Cuyler Bunner 



In the greenest growth of the Maytime, 
I rode where the woods were wet, 

Between the dawn and the daytime; 
The spring was glad that we met. 

There was something the season wanted, 
Though the ways and the woods smelt 
sweet, — 

The breath at your lips that panted, 
The pulse of the grass at your feet. 

You came, and the sun came after, 
And the green grew golden above; 

And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter, 
And the meadowsweet shook with love. 

Your feet in the full-grown grasses 
Moved soft as a weak wind blows: 

You passed me as April passes, 
With face made out of a rose. 


By the stream where the stems are slender, 
Your bright foot paused at the sedge; 

It might be to watch the tender 

Light leaves in the springtime hedge. 

On boughs that the sweet month blanches 

With flowery frost of May; 
It might be a bird in the branches, 

It might be a thorn in the way. 

I waited to watch you linger 

With foot drawn back from the dew, 

Till a sunbeam straight like a finger 

Struck sharp through the leaves at you, 

And a bird overhead sang Follow, 
And a bird to the right sang Here; 

And the arch of the leaves was hollow, 
And the meaning of May was clear. 

I saw where the sun's hand pointed, 
I knew what the bird's note said: 


By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, 
You were queen by the gold on your head. 

As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember 

Recalls a regret of the sun, 
I remember, forget, and remember 

What Love saw done and undone. 

I remember the way we parted, 

The day and the way we met: 
You hoped we were both broken-hearted, 

And knew we should both forget. 

And May with her world in flower 
Seemed still to murmur and smile 

As you murmured and smiled for an hour: 
I saw you turn at the stile. 

A hand like a white wood-blossom 
You lifted, and waved, and passed, 

With head hung down to the bosom, 
And pale, as it seemed, at last. 


And the best and the worst of this is, 
That neither is most to blame, 

If you 've forgotten my kisses, 
And I've forgotten your name. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



Free as the wandering pike am I, 

Many the strings to my amorous bow, 
More than a little inclined to fly 

Butterfly lovering, to and fro; 

Happy wherever the flowers blow, 
With the dew on the leaf, and the sunshine 

Terribly wrong and unprincipled? No, 
Life is too short to be "dead in love!" 

Not for me is the lover's sigh; 

Fools are they, to be worrying so! 
Sipping my fill of the honey I fly 

Butterfly lovering, to and fro. 

I skim the cream, and let all else go; 
Gather my roses, and give a shove 

Over my shoulder at dutiful woe, — 
Life is too short to be "dead in love!" 


So, while the fanciful hours go by, 

I gaily reap what the simpletons sow. 
Fresh with their bloom are the fruits I try, 

Butterfly lovering, to and fro. 

Then here's to the lady who wears her beau 
On and off, like a dainty glove! 

And here's to the zephyrs that all-ways 
blow — 
Life is too short to be "dead in love!" 


Prince, who cares for the coming snow, 
Butterfly lovering, to and fro? 
Why should a man be a turtle-dove? 
Life is too short to be "dead in love!" 

Gelett Burgess 



My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, 
My curtains drawn and all is snug; 
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, 
And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
Last night I had a curious dream, 
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

She looked so fair, she sang so well, 
I could but woo and she was won; 
My self in blue, the bride in white, 
The ring was placed, the deed was done! 
Away we went in chaise-and-four, 
As fast as grinning boys could flog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

What loving tete-a-tetes to come ! 
But tete-a-tetes must still defer! 


When Susan came to live with me, 
Her mother came to live with her! 
With Sister Belle she could n't part, 
But all my ties had leave to jog — 
What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

The mother brought a pretty Poll — 
A monkey too, what work he made! 
The sister introduced a beau — 
My Susan brought a favorite maid. 
She had a tabby of her own, — 
A snappish mongrel christened Gog — 
'What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

The monkey bit — the parrot screamed, 
All day the sister strummed and sung; 
The petted maid was such a scold! 
My Susan learned to use her tongue; 
Her mother had such wretched health, 
She sate and croaked like any frog — 


What d* ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, 
I soon came down to simple "M!" 
The very servants crossed my wish, 
My Susan let me down to them. 
The poker hardly seemed my own, 
I might as well have been a log — 
What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

My clothes they were the queerest shape! 
Such coats and hats she never met! 
My ways they were the oddest ways! 
My friends were such a vulgar set! 
Poor Tomkinson was snubbed and huffed, 
She could not bear that Mister Blogg — 
What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

At times we had a spar, and then 
Mamma must mingle in the song — 


The sister took a sister's part — 
The maid declared her master wrong — 
The parrot learned to call me "Fool!" 
My life was like a London fog — 
What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

My Susan's taste was superfine, 
As proved by bills that had no end; 
I never had a decent coat — 
I never had a coin to spend! 
She forced me to resign my club, 
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog — 
What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

Each Sunday night we gave a rout 
To fops and flirts, a pretty list; 
And when I tried to steal away, 
I found my study full of whist! 
Then, first to come, and last to go, 
There always was a Captain Hogg — 


What d* ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

Now was not that an awful dream 
For one who single is and snug — 
With Pussy in the elbow-chair, 
And Tray reposing on the rug? 
If I must totter down the hill, 
'T is safest done without a clog — 
What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
What d' ye think of that, my dog? 

Thomas Hood 



Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die because a woman's fair? 

Or my cheeks make pale with care 

'Cause another's rosy are? 

Be she fairer than the day 

Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she be not so to me 
What care I how fair she be? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined 

'Cause I see a woman kind; 

Or a well disposed nature 

Joined with a lovely feature? 

Be she meeker, kinder, than 

Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me 

What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman's virtue move 
Me to perish for her love? 
Or her merit's value known 
Make me quite forget my own? 


Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of Best; 
If she seem not so to me, 
What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find, 
Think what with them they would do 
Who without them dare to woo : 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I tho' great she be? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair; 

If she loves me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve; 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be? 

George Wither 


Oh, if the world were mine, Love, 
I'd give the world for thee! 

Alas! there is no sign, Love, 
Of that contingency. 

Were I a king, — which is n't 
To be considered now, — 

A diadem had glistened 

Upon that lovely brow. 

Had fame with laurels crowned me, - 
She has n't, up to date, — 

Nor time nor change had found me 
To love and thee ingrate. 

If death threw down his gage, Love, 
Though life is dear to me, 

I'd die, e'en of old age, Love, 
To win a smile from thee. 


But being poor, we part, dear, 

And love, sweet love, must die: 

Thou wilt not break thy heart, dear, 
No more, I think, shall I! 

James Jeffrey Roche 



Heigh-ho! they 're wed. The cards are dealt, 

Our frolic games are o'er; 
1 9 ve laughed, and fooVd, and lov'd. I *w felt — 

As I shall feel no more! 
Yon little thatch is where she lives, 

Yon spire is where she met me; — 
I think that if she quite forgives, 

She cannot quite forget me. 

Last year I trod these fields with Di, 
Fields fresh with clover and with rye; 

Now they seem arid. 
Then Di was fair and single; how 
Unfair it seems on me, for now 

Di's fair — and married! 

A blissful swain — I scorn'd the song 
Which says that though young Love is strong. 

The Fates are stronger: 
Breezes then blew a boon to men, 


The buttercups were bright, and then 
This grass was longer. 

That day I saw and much esteem'd 
Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd 

Inclined to smother: 
It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) 
The ribbon of her shoes, first one, 

And then the other. 

I'm told that virgins augur some 
Misfortune if their shoe-strings come 

To grief on Friday : 
And so did Di, and then her pride 
Decreed that shoe-strings so untied 

Are "so untidy!" 

Of course I knelt; with fingers deft 
I tied the right, and tied the left : 

Says Di, "The stubble 
Is very stupid ! — as I live 
I 'm quite ashamed ! . . . I 'm shock'd 
to give 
You so much trouble!" 


For answer I was fain to sink 

To what we all would say and think 

Were Beauty present: 
"Don't mention such a simple act — 
A trouble? Not the least! In fact 

It's rather pleasant!" 

I trust that Love will never tease 
Poor little Di, or prove that he 's 

A graceless rover. 
She 's happy now as Mrs, Smith — 
And less polite when walking with 

Her chosen lover! 

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings 
To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, 

We've had our quarrels. 
I think that Smith is thought an ass, — 
I know that when they walk in grass 

She wears balmorals. 

Frederick Locker-Lampson 



Her scuttle Hatt is wondrous wide, 

All furrie, too, on every side; 
Soe out She trippeth daintylie, 
To lett y e Youth full well to see 

How fayre y e mayde is for y e Bryde. 

A lyttle puffed, may be, bye Pryde, 
She yet soe lovelye is that I'd 
A Shillynge give to tye, perdie, 
Her scuttle Hatt. 

Y e Coales into y e Scuttle slide, 
Soe in her Hatt wolde I, and hide 

To steale some Kisses — two or three; 
But synce She never asketh me, 
Y e scornful Cynick doth deride 
Her scuttle Hatt! 
Frank Dempster Sherman 



When I loved you, I can't but allow 
I had many an exquisite minute; 

But the scorn that I feel for you now 
Hath even more luxury in it! 

Thus, whether we're on or we're off, 
Some witchery seems to await you; 

To love you is pleasant enough, 
And oh! 't is delicious to hate you! 
Thomas Moore 



Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever; 
One foot in sea, and one on shore; ' 
To one thing constant never. 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into Hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no more 

Of dumps so dull and heavy; 
The fraud of me was ever so, 
Since summer first was leavy. 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into Hey nonny, nonny. 

William Shakespeare 


It is ascertained by inspection of the registers of 
many countries, that the uniform proportion of male 
to female births is as 21 to 20 : accordingly, in respect 
to marriage, every 21st man is naturally superflu- 
ous. — Treatise on Population. 

I long have been puzzled to guess, 

And so I have frequently said, 
What the reason could really be 

That I never have happened to wed; 
But now it is perfectly clear 

I am under a natural ban; 
The girls are already assigned, — 

And I'm a superfluous man! 

Those clever statistical chaps 
1 Declare the numerical run 
Of women and men in the world, 

Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one; 
And hence in the pairing, you see, 

Since wooing and wedding began, 
For every connubial score, 

They've got a superfluous man! 


By twenties and twenties they go, 

And giddily rush to their fate, 
For none of the number, of course, 

Can fail of a conjugal mate; 
But while they are yielding in scores 

To Nature's inflexible plan, 
There 's never a woman for me, — 

For I'm a superfluous man! 

It is n't that I am a churl, 

To solitude over-inclined; 
It is n't that I am at fault 

In morals or manners or mind; 
Then what is the reason, you ask, 

I'm still with the bachelor-clan? 
I merely was numbered amiss, — 

And I'm a superfluous man! 

It is n't that I am in want 
Of personal beauty or grace, 

For many a man with a wife 
Is uglier far in the face; 


Indeed, among elegant men 

I fancy myself in the van; 
But what is the value of that, 

When I'm a superfluous man? 

Although I am fond of the girls, 

For aught I could ever discern 
The tender emotion I feel 

Is one that they never return; 
'T is idle to quarrel with fate, 

For, struggle as hard as I can, 
They 're mated already, you know, — 

And I'm a superfluous man! 

No wonder I grumble at times, 

With women so pretty and plenty, 
To know that I never was born 

To figure as one of the Twenty; 
But yet, when the average lot 

With critical vision I scan, 
I think it may be for the best 

That I'm a superfluous man! 

John Godfrey Saxe 


I know not of what we ponder'd 

Or made pretty pretence to talk, 
As, her hand within mine, we wander'd 
Tow'rd the pool by the limetree walk, 
While the dew fell in showers from the passion 
And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. 

I cannot recall her figure : 

Was it regal as Juno's own? 
Or only a trifle bigger 

Than the elves who surround the throne 
Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween, 
By mortals in dreams alone? 

What her eyes were like, I know not: 
Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears; 

And perhaps in your skies there glow not 
(On the contrary) clearer spheres. 


No ! as to her eyes I am just as wise 
As you or the cat, my dears. 

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": 
But which was she, brunette or blonde? 

Her hair, was it quaintly curly, 
Or as straight as a beadle's wand? 
That I fail'd to remark; — it was rather dark 

And shadowy round the pond. 

Then the hand that reposed so snugly 

In mine — was it plump or spare? 
Was the countenance fair or ugly? 
Nay, children, you have me there ! 
My eyes were p'raps blurr'd; and besides I'd 
That it's horribly rude to stare. 

And I — was I brusque and surly? 

Or oppressively bland and fond? 
Was I partial to rising early? 

Or why did we twain abscond, 


All breakfastless too, from the public view 
To prowl by a misty pond? 

What pass'd, what was felt or spoken — 

Whether anything pass'd at all — 
And whether the heart was broken 

That beat under that shel'tring shawl — 
(If shawl she had on, which I doubt) — has 
Yes, gone from me past recall. 

Was I haply the lady's suitor? 

Or her uncle? I can't make out — 
Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. 
For myself, I 'm in hopeless doubt 
As to why we were there, who on earth we 
And what this is all about. 

Charles Stuart Calverley 



I watch'd her as she stoop'd to pluck 

A wildflower in her hair to twine; 
And wish'd that it had been my luck 
To call her mine. 

Anon I heard her rate with mad 

Mad words her babe within its cot; 
And felt particularly glad 

That it had not. 

I knew (such subtle brains have men) 

That she was uttering what she should n't; 
And thought that I w T ould chide, and then 
I thought I would n't. 

Who could have gazed upon that face, 

Those pouting coral lips, and chided? 
A Rhadamanthus, in my place, 
Had done as I did: 


For ire wherewith our bosoms glow 

Is chain'd there oft by Beauty's spell; 
And, more than that, I did not know 
The widow well. 

So the harsh phrase pass'd unreproved. 

Still mute — (O brothers, was it sin?) — 
I drank, unutterably moved, 
Her beauty in: 

And to myself I murmur'd low, 

As on her upturn'd face and dress 
The moonlight fell, "Would she say No, 
"By chance, or Yes?" 

She stood so calm, so like a ghost 

Betwixt me and that magic moon, 
That I already was almost 
A finish'd coon. 

But when she caught adroitly up 

And soothed with smiles her little daughter; 


And gave it, if I 'm right, a sup 
Of barley-water; 

And, crooning still the strange sweet lore 
Which only mothers' tongues can utter, 
Snow'd with deft hand the sugar o'er 
Its bread-and-butter; 

And kiss'd it clingingly — (Ah, why 

Don't women do these things in private?) 
I felt that if I lost her, I 

Should not survive it: 

And from my mouth the words nigh flew — 

The past, the future, I forgat 'em: 
"Oh! if you'd kiss me as you do 
That thankless atom!" 

But this thought came ere yet I spake, 

And froze the sentence on my lips : 
"They err, who marry wives that make 
These little slips." 


It came like some familiar rhyme, 
Some copy to my boyhood set; 
And that 's perhaps the reason I 'm 
Unmarried yet. 

Would she have own'd how pleased she was, 

And told her love with widow's pride? 
I never found out that, because 
I never tried. 

Be kind to babes and beasts and birds: 

Hearts may be hard, though lips are coral; 
And angry words are angry words : 
And that's the moral. 

Charles Stuart Calverley 



Sat we 'neath the dark verandah, 

Years and years ago; 
And I softly pressed a hand a 

Deal more white than snow. 
And I cast aside my reina y 

As I gazed upon her face, 
And I read her "Magdalena," , 

While she smoothed her Spanish lace • 
Read her Waller's "Magdalena" — 

She had Magdalena's grace. 
Read her of the Spanish duel, 
Of the brother, courtly, cruel, 
Who between the British wooer 

And the Seville lady came; 
How her lover promptly slew her 

Brother, and then fled in shame — 
How he dreamed, in long years after, 
Of the river's rippling laughter — 

Of the look he used to know 


In the myrtle-curtained villa 
Near the city of Sevilla 
Years and years ago. 

Oh, how warmly was I reading, 

As I gazed upon her face! 
And my voice took tones of pleading, 

For I sought to win her grace. 
Surely thought I, in her veins 
Runs some drop of foreign strains — 
There is something half Castilian 
In that lip that shames vermilion; 
In that mass of raven tresses, 
Tossing like a falcon's jesses; 
In that eye with trailing lashes, 
And its witching upward flashes — 

Such, indeed, I know, 
Shone where Guadalquivir plashes 

Years and years ago. 

Looking in her face I read it — 
How the metre trips ! — 


And the god of lovers sped it 

On my happy lips — 
All those words of mystic sweetness 
Spoke I with an airy neatness, 
As I never had before — 
As I cannot speak them more — 
Reja, plaza, and mantilla, 
"No palabras" and Sevilla, 
Caballero and sombrero, 
And Duenna and Duero, 
Spada, sefior, sabe Dios — 
Smooth as pipe of Meliboeus — 
Ah, how very well I read it, 

Looking in her lovely eyes! 
When 't was o'er, I looked for credit, 

As she softly moved to rise. 

Doting dream, ah, dream fallacious — 

Years and years ago ! — 
For she only said: "My gracious — 
What a lot of French you know!" 

Henry Cuyler Btjnner 


Good-night to thee, Lady! tho' many 

Have join'd in the dance of to-night, 
Thy form was the fairest of any, 

Where all was seducing and bright; 
Thy smile was the softest and dearest, 

Thy form the most sylph-like of all, 
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest 

That e'er held a partner in thrall. 

Good-night to thee, Lady ! 't is over — * 

The waltz, the quadrille, and the song — 
The whisper'd farewell of the lover, 

The heartless adieu of the throng; 
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure, 

The eye-lid that long'd for repose — 
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure, 

The girls that were dreaming of beaux. 

'T is over — the lights are all dying, 
The coaches are driving away; 


And many a fair one is sighing, 

And many a false one is gay; 
And Beauty counts over her numbers 

Of conquests, as homeward she drives — ■ 
And some are gone home to their slumbers, 

And some are gone home to their wives. 

And I, while my cab in the shower 

Is waiting, the last at the door, 
Am looking all round for the flower 

That fell from your wreath on the floor. 
I'll keep it — if but to remind me, 

Though wither'd and faded its hue — 
Wherever next season may find me — 

Of England — of Almack's — and you ! 

There are tones that will haunt us, tho' lonely 

Our path be o'er mountain, or sea; 
There are looks that will part from us only 

When memory ceases to be; 
There are hopes which our burthen can 
Tho' toilsome and steep be the way; 


And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten 
With a light that is clearer than day. 

There are names that we cherish, tho' name- 

For aye on the lip they may be; 
There are hearts, tho' fetter'd, are tameless, 

And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free! 
And some are too grave for a rover, 

And some for a husband too light, — 
The Ball and my dream are all over — 

Good-night to thee, Lady, Good -night! 
Edward Fitzgerald 



She sits in a fashionable parlor, 
And rocks in her easy chair; 

She is clad in silks and satins, 
And jewels are in her hair; 

She winks and giggles and simpers, 
And simpers and giggles and winks; 

And though she talks but little, 

'T is a good deal more than she thinks. 

She lies abed in the morning 

Till nearly the hour of noon, 
Then comes down snapping and snarling 

Because she was called so soon; 
Her hair is still in papers, 

Her cheeks still fresh with paint, — 
Remains of her last night's blushes, 

Before she intended to faint. 

She dotes upon men unshaven, 
And men with "flowing hair"; 

She's eloquent over mustaches, 
They give such a foreign air. 


She talks of Italian music, 

And falls in love with the moon; 

And, if a mouse weTe to meet her, 
She would sink away in a swoon. 

Her feet are so very little, 

Her hands are so very white, 
Her jewels so very heavy, 

And her head so very light; 
Her color is made of cosmetics 

(Though this she will never own), 
Her body is mostly of cotton, 

Her heart is wholly of stone. 

She falls in love with a fellow 

Who swells with a foreign air; 
He marries her for her money, 

She marries him for his hair! 
One of the very best matches, — 

Both are well-mated in life; 
She 9 s got a fool for a husband, 

He 's got a fool for a wife! 



When Psyche's friend becomes her lover, 
How sweetly these conditions blend! 

But, oh, what anguish to discover 
Her lover has become — her friend ! 

Mary Ainge de Verb 



Poor Rose! I lift you from the street — 

Far better I should own you, 
Than you should lie for random feet, 

Where careless hands have thrown you! 

Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn! 

Did heartless Mayfair use you, 
Then cast you forth to lie forlorn, 

For chariot wheels to bruise you? 

I saw you last in Edith's hair. 

Rose, you would scarce discover 
That I she passed upon the stair 

Was Edith's favored lover. 

A month — "a little month" — ago — 

O theme for moral writer ! — 
'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, 

She might have been politer; 


But let that pass. She gave you then — 

Behind the oleander — 
To one, perhaps, of all the men, 

Who best could understand her, — 

Cyril that, duly flattered, took, 

As only Cyril's able, 
With just the same Arcadian look 

He used, last night, for Mabel; 

Then, having waltzed till every star 
Had paled away in morning, 

Lit up his cynical cigar, 

And tossed you downward, scorning. 

Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet, — 
She made my heart-strings quiver; 

And yet — You sha'n't lie in the street, 
I'll drop you in the River. 

Austin Dobson 



Strephon kissed me in the spring, 

Robin in the fall, 
But Colin only looked at me 

And never kissed at all. 

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, 

Robin's lost in play, 
But the kiss in Colin's eyes 

Haunts me night and day. 

Sara Teasdale 




She came — she is gone — we have met — 

And meet perhaps never again; 
The sun of that moment is set, 

And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina has fled like a dream, 

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) 
But has left a regret and esteem 

That will not so suddenly pass. 

That last evening ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, and I, 
Our progress as often delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
We paused under many a tree, 

And much was she charm' d with a tone, 
Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 


My numbers that day she had sung, 

And gave them a grace so divine, 
As only her musical tongue 

Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heard, I esteem'd 

The work of my fancy the more, 
And e'en to myself never seem'd 

So tuneful a poet before. 

Though the pleasures of London exceed 

In number the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 

Would feel herself happier here; 
For the close- woven arches of limes 

On the banks of our river, I know, 
Are sweeter to her many times 

Than aught that the city can show. 

So it is, when the mind is endued 

With a well- judging taste from above, 

Then, whether embellish' d or rude, 
'T is nature alone that we love. 


The achievements of art may amuse, 

May even our wonder excite, 
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 

A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice, 
May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice! 
To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 

To wing all her moments at home; 
And with scenes that new rapture inspire 

As oft as it suits her to roam; 
She will have just the life she prefers, 

With little to hope or to fear, 
And ours would be pleasant as hers, 

Might we view it enjoying it here. 

William Cowper 


We two learned the lesson together, 

The oldest of all, yet so new 
To myself, and I'm wondering whether 

It was utterly novel to you? 

The pages — you seemed to have known them, 
The pictures that changed 'neath our eyes; 

Alas ! by what hand were you shown them, 
That I find you so womanly wise? 

Is it strange that my hand on your shoulder 
In the dusk of the day should be placed? 

Did you say to yourself, " Were he older 
His arm had encircled my waist?" 

If it be so, so be it, fair teacher; 

I sit at your feet and am wise, 
For each page of the book is a feature, 

And the light of the reading, your eyes. 


We have met, and the meeting is over; 

We must part, and the parting is now; 
We have played out the game — I, boy-lover, 

In earnest, and you, dearest, how? 

Rudyard Kipling 



When I was one-and-twenty 

I heard a wise man say, 
"Give crowns and pounds and guineas 

But not your heart away; 
Give pearls away and rubies 

But keep your fancy free." 
But I was one-and-twenty, 

No use to talk to me. 

When I was one-and-twenty 

I heard him say again, 
"The heart out of the bosom 

Was never given in vain; 
'T is paid with sighs a-plenty 

And sold for endless rue." 
And I am two-and-twenty, 

And oh, 't is true, 't is true. 

A. E. Housman 


Could I bring back lost youth again 

And be what I have been, 
I 'd court you in a gallant strain, 

My young and fair Florine. 

But mine's the chilling age that chides 

Devoted rapture's glow, 
And Love — that conquers all besides — 

Finds Time a conquering foe. 

Farewell! we're severed by our fate 

As far as night from noon; 
You came into the world too late, 

And I depart so soon. 

Thomas Campbell 



Proud word you never spoke, but you will 
Four not exempt from pride some future 
Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, 
Over my open volume you will say, 
"This man loved me" — then rise and trip 

Walter Savage Landor 



The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a 

Which Mary to Anna conveyed; 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower 

And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fifl'd, and the leaves were all 

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, 
To weep for the bud it had left with regret 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, 
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! 

I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. 

"And such," I exclaim'd, "is the pitiless part 
Some act by the delicate mind, 


Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
Already to sorrow resign'd. 

"This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; 

And the tear that is wiped with a little address, 
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile." 
William Cowper 



The time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 
s The light that lies 

In woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 
Though Wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorned the lore she brought me, 

My only books 

Were woman's looks, 
And folly 's all they ' ve taught me. 

Her smile when Beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted, 

Like him the sprite, 

Whom maids by night 

Oft met in glen that's haunted. 

Like him, too, Beauty won me 

But while her eyes were on me, 



If once their ray 
Was turned away, 
Oh! winds could not outrun me. 

And are those follies going? 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing? 
No, vain, alas! th' endeavour 
From bonds so sweet to sever; 

Poor Wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever. 

Thomas Moore 



As after noon, one summer's day, 
Venus stood bathing in a river; 

Cupid a-shooting went that way, 

New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver. 

With skill he chose his sharpest dart: 
With all his might his bow he drew: 

Swift to his beauteous parent's heart 
The too well-guided arrow flew. 

I faint! I die! the goddess cried; 

cruel, could'st thou find none other, 
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide! 

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. 

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak; 
"Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye: 
Alas! how easy my mistake; 

1 took you for your likeness, Chloe." 

Matthew Prior 


Go and catch a falling star, 

Get with child a mandrake root, 
Tell me where all years past are, 

Or who cleft the devil's foot, 
Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, 
Or to keep off envy's stinging, 
And find, 
What wind 
Serves to advance an honest mind. 

If thou be'st born to strange sights, 

Things invisible go see, 
Ride ten thousand days and nights, 
Till age snow white hairs on thee; 
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me 
All strange wonders that befell thee, 
And swear, 
Lives a woman true and fair. 


If thou find'st one, let me know, 
Such a pilgrimage were sweet; 
Yet do not: I would not go, 

Though at next door we might meet; 
Though she were true when you met her, 
And last till you write your letter, 
Yet she 
Will be 
False, ere I come, to two or three. 

John Donne 




Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 

Dear mercenary beauty, 
What annual offering shall I make 

Expressive of my duty? 

My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 

Shall I at once deliver, 
Say, would the angry fair one prize 

The gift who slights the giver? 

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 
My rivals give — and let them, 

If gems or gold impart a joy, 
I '11 give them when I get them. 

I'll give — but not the full blown rose, 
Or rosebud more in fashion; 

Such short-lived offerings but disclose 
Avtransitory passion. 


I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 

Not less sincere than civil : 
I '11 give thee — ah ! too charming maid, 

I'll give thee — to the devil. 

Oliver Goldsmith 



Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prithee why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prithee why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Say nothing do 't? 

Prithee why so mute? 

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move, 

This cannot take her; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her; 

The devil take her. 

Sir John Suckling 



I know not why my soul is rack'd : 

Why I ne'er smile as was my wont: 
I only know that, as a fact, 

I don't. 
I used to roam o'er glen and glade 

Buoyant and blithe as other folk: 
And not infrequently I made 
A joke. 

A minstrel's fire within me burn'd. 

I 'd sing, as one whose heart must break. 
Lay upon lay: I nearly learn'd 

To shake. 
All day I sang; of love, of fame, 

Of fights our fathers fought of yore, 
Until the thing almost became 
A bore. 

I cannot sing the old songs now! 

It is not that I deem them low; 
'T is that I can't remember how 
They go. 


I could not range the hills till high 

Above me stood the summer moon: 
And as to dancing, I could fly 
As soon. 

The sports, to which with boyish glee 
I sprang ere while, attract no more; 
Although I am but sixty-three 

Or four. 
Nay, worse than that, I've seem'd of late 
To shrink from happy boyhood — boys 
Have grown so noisy, and I hate 
A noise. 

They fright me, when the beech is green, 

By swarming up its stem for eggs: 
They drive their horrid hoops between 

My legs : — 
It's idle to repine, I Ijnow; 

I'll tell you what I'll do instead: 
I '11 drink my arrowroot, and go 
To bed. 
Charles Stuart Calverley 


I'm sitting alone by the fire 

Dressed just as I came from the dance, 
It's a robe even you would admire, — 

It cost a cool thousand in France; 
I 'm be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue: 
In short, sir, the "belle of the season" 

Is wasting an hour on you. 

A dozen engagements I've broken; 

I left in the midst of a set; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken, 

That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. 
They say he '11 be rich, — when he grows up, - 

And then he adores me indeed. 
And you, sir, are turnmg your nose up, 

Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

"And how do I like my position?" 
"And what do I think of New York?" 


"And now, in my higher ambition, 
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" 

"And is n't it nice to have riches, 

And diamonds and silks, and all that? " 

"And are n't it a change to the ditches 
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" 

Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving 

Each day in the park, four-in-hand, — 
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 

To look supernaturally grand, — 
If you saw papa's picture, as taken 

By Brady, and tinted at that, — 
You'd never suspect he sold bacon 

And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just this moment, when sitting 
In the glare of the grand chandelier, — 

In the bustle and glitter befitting 
The "finest soirie of the year," — 

In the mists of a gaze de ChambSry, 
And the hum of the smallest of talk, — 


Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," 
And the dance that we had on "The Fork." 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 

Of flags festooned over the wall; 
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 

And tallow on head-dress and shawl; 
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle; 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; 
And how I once went down the middle 

With the man that shot Sandy McGee; 

Of the man that was quietly sleeping ; 

Of the hill, when the time came to go; 
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 

From under their bedclothes of snow; 
Of that ride, — that to me was the rarest; 

Of — the something you said at the gate; 
Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress 

To "the best-paying lead in the State." 

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny 
To think as I stood in the glare 


Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should be thinking, right there, 

Of some one who breasted high water, 
And swam the North Fork, and all 

Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, 
The lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness ! what nonsense I 'm writing ! 

(Mamma says my taste still is low,) 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I 'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho ! 
And I'm to be "finished" by travel, — 

Whatever 's the meaning of that, — 
O, why did papa strike pay gravel 

In drifting on Poverty Flat? 

Good-night, — here's the end of my paper; 

Good-night, — if the longitude please, — 
For maybe, while wasting my taper, 

Your sun's climbing over the trees. 



But know, if you have n't got riches, 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart's somewhere there in the 
And you've struck it, — on Poverty Flat. 
Francis Bret Harte 



I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom 

Moore: — 
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's 

So he called upon Lucy — 'twas just ten 

o'clock — 
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double 


Now, a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at, 
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat. 
So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more 
Had questioned the stranger and answered the 

The meeting was bliss; but the parting was 

For the moment will come when such comers 

must go : 



So she kissed him, and whispered — poor inno- 
cent thing — 

"The next time you come, love, pray come 
with a ring." 

Thomas Hood 



Alas, how soon the hours are over 
Counted us out to play the lover! 
And how much narrower is the stage 
Alio ted us to play the sage! 
But when we play the fool, how wide 
The theatre expands! beside, 
How long the audience sit before us: 
How many prompters, what a chorus! 
Walter Savage Landor 



Fair Eve devised a walking-suit 
Of jungle grasses, soft and crimpy; 

She thought it rather neat and cute 
Till Adam grunted, "Pretty skimpy!" 

A cloak of palm-leaves, sought for miles, 
She made, and came to be admired; 

But Adam said, "The silly styles 

You women wear just make me tired!" 

She built herself a little hat 
Of lilies (Eve was very clever), 

And asked him what he thought of that ? 
And Adam blurted, "Well, I never 1 " 

So next she placed upon her head 

A feathered three-by-four Creation. — 

The little word that Adam said 
Is barred from parlor conversation. 


Yet Eve refused to be a dowd, 

And tied an autumn-tinted sash on. 

"I'll dress to please myself!" she vowed, 
"For what does Adam know of fashion? 

"What use to seek applause from him? 

He scoffs and says I cannot reason! 
Well, then, my law shall be my whim — 

And that shall change with every season.* 

Since when, revolving cycles bring 
The gayest fashions and the queerest; 

And Eve declares, "It's just the thing!" 
And Adam murmurs, "Is it, dearest?" 

Arthur Guiterman 



I painted her a gushing thing, 

With years perhaps a score; 
I little thought to find they were . 

At least a dozen more; 
My fancy gave her eyes of blue, 

A curly, auburn head; 
I came to find the blue a green, 

The auburn turned to red. 

She boxed my ears this morning — 

They tingled very much; 
I own that I could wish her 

A somewhat lighter touch; 
And if you were to ask me how 

Her charms might be improved, 
I would not have them added to, 

But just a few removed! 

She has the bear's ethereal grace, 
The bland hyena's laugh, 


The footstep of the elephant, 

The neck of the giraffe. 
I love her still, believe me, 

Though my heart its passion hides; 
"She is all my fancy painted her," 

But, oh, how much besides ! 

Lewis Carroll 



We've lived for forty years, dear wife, 

And walked together side by side, 
And you to-day are just as dear 

As when you were my bride. 
I've tried to make life glad for you, 

One long, sweet honeymoon of joy, 
A dream of marital content, 

Without the least alloy. 
I've smoothed all boulders from our path, 

That we in peace might toil along; 
But always hastening to admit 

That I was right and you were wrong. 

No mad diversity of creed 

Has ever sundered me from thee; 

For I permit you evermore 
To borrow your ideas of me. 


And thus it is, through weal or woe, 

Our love for evermore endures; 
For I permit that you should take 

My views and creeds, and make > them 
And thus I let you have my way, 

And thus in peace we toil along 
For I am willing to admit 

That I am right and you are wrong. 

And when our matrimonial skiff 

Strikes snags in love's meandering stream, 
I lift our shallop from the rocks, 

And float as in a placid dream. 
And well I know our marriage bliss 

While life shall last will never cease; 
For I shall always let thee do, 

In generous love, just what I please. 
Peace comes, and discord flies away, 

Love's bright day follows hatred's night; 
For I am ready to admit 

That you are wrong and I am right. 


Dear wife, when discord reared its head, 

And love's sweet light forgot to shine, 
'T was then I freely would permit 

That thy will should'st conform to mine. 
In all things, whether great or small, 

In all life's path we 've wandered through, 
I ' ve graciously let you perform 

Just what I wanted you to do. 
No altercation could destroy 

The love that held us sure and strong; 
For evermore would I admit 

That I was right and you were wrong. 

Sweet wedded love! O life of bliss! 

Our years in peace have flown along; 
For you admit that I was right, 

And I admit that you were wrong. 
No dogged stubbornness of soul 

Has ever wrenched my heart from thine; 
For thy will ever was my own 

Because thy will was always mine. 


So sweet forgiveness crowns our years, 
And sheds on us its tender light; 

For I admit that you were wrong, 
And you admit that I was right. 

Sam Walter Foss 




My temples throb, my pulses boil, 
I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad - 

So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, 
And pour it on a lobster salad. 

My brain is dull, my light is foul, 
I cannot write a verse, or read, — 

Then Pallas take away thine Owl, 
And let us have a Lark instead. 

Thomas Hood 



Lord Harry has written a novel, 

A stoiy of elegant life; 
No stuff about love in a hovel, 

No sketch of a commoners wife: 
No trash such as pathos and passion, 

Fine feelings, expression, and wit; 
But all about people of fashion, 

Come look at his caps how they fit! 

O, Radcliffe! thou once wert the charmer 

Of girls who sat reading all night; 
Thy heroes were striplings in armor, 

Thy heroines damsels in white. 
But past are thy terrible touches, 

Our lips in derision we curl, 
Unless we are told how a Duchess, 

Conversed with her cousin, the Earl. 

We now have each dialogue quite full 
Of titles — "I give you my word, 



My lady, you're looking delightful. " 
"O dear, do you think so, my lord!" 

"You've heard of the marquis's marriage, 
The bride with her jewels new set, 

Four horses, new travelling carriage, 
And dejeuner a la fourchette" 

Haul ton finds her privacy broken, 

We trace all her ins and her outs; 
The very small talk that is spoken 

By the very great people at routs; 
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of 

The book from the innkeeper's wife, 
And reads till she dreams she is one of 

The leaders of elegant life. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly 



Ecce iterum Crispinus 

Again I hear that creaking step! — 

He's rapping at the door! — 
Too well I know the boding sound 

That ushers in a bore. 
I do not tremble when I meet 

The stoutest of my foes, 
But Heaven defend me from the friend 

Who comes — but never goes. 

He drops into my easy-chair, 

And asks about the news; 
He peers into my manuscript, 

And gives his candid views; 
He tells me where he likes the line, 

And where he's forced to grieve; 
He takes the strangest liberties, — 

But never takes his leave! 


He reads my daily paper through 

Before I've seen a word; 
He scans the lyric (that I wrote) 

And thinks it quite absurd; 
He calmly smokes my last cigar, 

And coolly asks for more; 
He opens everything he sees — 

Except the entry door! 

He talks about his fragile health, 

And tells me of the pains 
He suffers from a score of ills 

Of which he ne'er complains; 
And how he struggled once with death 

To keep the fiend at bay; 
On themes like those away he goes, — 

But never goes away! 

He tells me of the carping words 

Some shallow critic wrote; 
And every precious paragraph 

Familiarly can quote; 


He thinks the writer did me wrong; 

He'd like to run him through! 
He says a thousand pleasant things, — 

But never says, "Adieu!" 

Whene'er he comes, — that dreadful man, — 

Disguise it as I may, 
I know that, like an Autumn rain, 

He '11 last throughout the day. 
In vain I speak of urgent tasks; 

In vain I scowl and pout; 
A frown is no extinguisher. — 

It does not put him out! 

I mean to take the knocker off, 

Put crape upon the door, 
Or hint to John that I am gone 

To stay a month or more. 
I do not tremble when I meet 

The stoutest of my foes, 
But Heaven defend me from the friend 

Who never, never goes! 

John Godfrey Saxe 


My coachman, in the moonlight there, 
Looks through the side-light of the door; 

I hear him with his brethren swear,- 
As I could do, — only but more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 

He envies me my brilliant lot, 
Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 

And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side, 
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm 

'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; 
And wishes me some dreadful harm, 

Hearing the merry corks explode. 

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 


And envy him, outside the door, 
In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 

As the bright smile he sees me win, 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungy ved prance 

With which his freezing feet he warms, 

And drag my lady's-chains and dance 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 

Oh, could he have my share of din, 
And I his quiet! — past a doubt 

'T would still be one man bored within, 
And just another bored without. 

Nay, when, once paid my mortal fee, 

Some idler on my headstone grim 

Traces the moss-blurred name, will he 

Think me the happier, or I him? 

James Russell Lowell 


To put new shingles on old roofs; 

To give old women wadded skirts; 
To treat premonitory coughs 

With seasonable flannel shirts; 
To soothe the stings of poverty 

And keep the jackal from the door — 
These are the works that occupy 

The Little Sister of the Poor. 

She carries, everywhere she goes, 

Kind words and chickens, jams and 
Poultices for corporeal woes, 

And sympathy for downcast souls; 
Her currant jelly — her quinine, 

The lips of fever move to bless. 
She makes the humble sick-room shine 

With unaccustomed tidiness. 


A heart of hers the instant twin 

And vivid counterpart is mine; 
I also serve my fellow men, 

Though in a somewhat different line. 
The Poor, and their concerns, she has 

Monopolized, because of which 
It falls to me to labor as 

A Little Brother of the Rich. 

For their sake at no sacrifice 

Does my devoted spirit quail; 
I give their horses exercise; 

As ballast on their yachts I sail. 
Upon their Tally-Hos I ride 

And brave the chances of a storm; 
I even use my own inside 

To keep their wines and victuals warm. 

Those whom we strive to benefit 
Dear to our hearts soon grow to be; 

I love my Rich, and I admit 
That they are very good to me. 


Succor the Poor, my sisters, I, 

While heaven shall still vouchsafe me 
Will strive to share and mollify 
The trials of abounding wealth. 

Edward Sandford Martin 



My Postman, though I fear thy tread, 

And tremble as thy foot draws nearer, 
'T is not the Christmas Dun I dread, 

My mortal foe is much severer, — 
The Unknown Correspondent, who, 

With indefatigable pen, 
And nothing in the world to do, 

Perplexes literary men. 

From Pentecost and Ponder's End 

They write; from Deal and from Dacotah, 
The people of the Shetlands send 

No inconsiderable quota; 
They write for autographs; in vain, 

In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora, 
They write that Allan Quatermain 

Is not at all the book for Brora. 

They write to say that "they have met" 
This writer "at a garden party," 


And though this writer "may forget," 
Their recollection 's keen and hearty. 

"And will you praise in your reviews 
A novel by our distant cousin?" 

These letters from Provincial Blues 
Assail us daily by the dozen! 

O friends with time upon your hands, 

O friends with postage stamps in plenty, 
O poets out of many lands, 

O youths and maidens under twenty, 
Seek out some other wretch to bore, 

Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours, 
And leave me to my dusty lore, 

And my unprofitable labours. 

Andrew Lang 


I recollect a nurse call'd Ann, 

Who carried me about the grass, 
And one fine day a fine young man 

Came up and kiss'd the pretty lass : 
She did not make the least objection! 
Thinks I, "Aha! 
When I can talk I'll tell Mamma." 
— And that 's my earliest recollection. 
Frederick Locker-Lampson 



I love to hear thine earnest voice, 

Wherever thou art hid, 
Thou testy little dogmatist, 

Thou pretty Katydid! 
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — 

Old gentlefolks are they, — 
Thou say'st an undisputed thing 

In such a solemn way. 

Thou art a female, Katydid! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thy piercing notes, 

So petulant and shrill, 
I think there is a knot of you 

Beneath the hollow tree, — 
A knot of spinster Katydids, — 

Do Katydids drink tea? 

Oh, tell me where did Katy live, 
And what did Katy do? 



And was she very fair and young, 

And yet so wicked, too? 
Did Katy love a naughty man, 

Or kiss more cheeks than one? 
I warrant Katy did no more 

Than many a Kate has done. 

Dear me ! I '11 tell you all about 

My fuss with little Jane, 
And Ann, with whom I used to walk 

So often down the lane, 
And all that tore their locks of black, 

Or wet their eyes of blue, — 
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do? 

Ah, no ! the living oak shall crash, 

That stood for ages still, 
The rock shall rend its mossy base 

And thunder down the hill, 
Before the little Katydid 

Shall add one word, to tell 


The mystic story of the maid 
Whose name she knows so well. 

Peace to the ever murmuring race? 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings 

Beneath the autumn sun, 
Then shall she raise her fainting voice 

And lift her drooping lid, 
And then the child of future years 

Shall hear what Katy did. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 



Beneath the warrior's helm, behold 
The flowing tresses of the woman! 

Minerva, Pallas, what you will — 

A winsome creature, Greek or Roman. 

Minerva? No! 't is some sly minx 
In cousin's helmet masquerading; 

If not — then Wisdom was a dame 
For sonnets and for serenading! 

I thought the goddess cold, austere, 

Not made for love's despairs and blisses : 

Did Pallas wear her hair like that? 

Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses? 

The Nightingale should be her bird, 
And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: 

How very fresh she looks, and yet 
She's older far than Trajan's Column! 


The magic hand that carved this face, 
And set this vine-work round it running, 

Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought 
Had lost its subtle skill and cunning. 

Who was he? Was he glad or sad, 
Who knew to carve in such a fashion? 

Perchance he graved the dainty head 

For some brown girl that scorned his pas- 

Perchance, in some still garden-place, 
Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, 

He flung the jewel at the feet 

Of Phryne, or perhaps 't was Lais. 

But he is dust; we may not know 

His happy or unhappy story: 
Nameless, and dead these centuries, 

His work outlives him — there's his glory! 

Both man and jewel lay in earth 
Beneath a lava-buried city; 



The countless summers came and went 
With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity. 

Years blotted out the man, but left 
The jewel fresh as any blossom, 

Till some Visconti dug it up — 
To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom! 

O nameless brother ! see how Time 

Your gracious handiwork has guarded: 

See how your loving, patient art 
Has come, at last, to be rewarded. 

Who would not suffer slights of men, 
And pangs of hopeless passion also, 

To have his carven agate-stone 
On such a bosom rise and fall so ! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich 


The days of Bute and Grafton's fame, 

Of Chatham's waning prime, 

First heard your sounding gong proclaim 

Its chronicle of Time; 

Old days when Dodd confessed his guilt, 

When Goldsmith drave his quill, 

And genial gossip Horace built 

His house on Strawberry Hill. 

Now with a grave unmeaning face 
You still repeat the tale, 
High-towering in your somber case, 
Designed by Chippendale; 
Without regret for what is gone, 
You bid old customs change, 
As year by year you travel on 
To scenes and voices strange. 

We might have mingled with the crowd 
Of courtiers in this hall, 



The fans that swayed, the wigs that bowed, 

But you have spoiled it all; 

We might have lingered in the train 

Of nymphs that Reynolds drew, 

Or stared spell-bound in Drury Lane 

At Garrick — but for you. 

We might in Leicester Fields have swelled 

The throng of beaux and cits, 

Or listened to the concourse held 

Among the Kitcat wits; 

Have strolled with Selwyn in Pall Mall, 

Arrayed in gorgeous silks, 

Or in Great George Street raised a yell 

For Liberty and Wilkes. 

This is the life which you have known, 
Which you have ticked away, 
In one unmoved unfaltering tone 
That ceased not day by day, 
While ever round your dial moved 
Your hands from span to span, 


Through drowsy hours and hours that proved 
Big with the fate of man. 

A steady tick for fatal creeds, 

For youth on folly bent, 

A steady tick for worthy deeds, 

And moments wisely spent; 

No warning note of emphasis, 

No whisper of advice, 

To ruined rake or flippant miss, 

For coquetry or dice. 

You might, I think, have hammered out 

With meaning doubly clear, 

The midnight of a Vauxhall rout 

In Evelina's ear; 

Or when the night was almost gone, 

You might, the deals between, 

Have startled those who looked upon 

The cloth when it was green. 

But no, in all the vanished years 
Down which your heels have run, 


Your message borne to heedless ears 

Is one and only one — 

No wit of men, do power of kings, 

Can stem the overthrow 

Wrought by this pendulum that swings 

Sedately to and fro. 

Alfred Cochrane 



A street there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 

Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — 
The New Street of the Little Fields. 

And here 's an inn, not rich and splendid, 
But still in comfortable case; 

The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hatchforth of all sorts of dishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo; 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: 
All these you eat at Terre 's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 


Indeed a rich and savory stew 't is; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
A.nd Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; 
The smiling red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace: 
He'd come and smile before your table, 

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older. 

"How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 

"Monsieur is dead this many a day." 


" It is the lot of saint and sinner, 
So honest Terre 's run his race." 

''What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?" 

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," *s the waiter's answer; 

"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" 
"Tell me a good one." — "That I can, sir: 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
"So Terre 's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustom'd corner-place; 
"He's done with feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, 

I 'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 


Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days here met to dine? 
Come, waiter, quick! a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace; 
Around the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; 
There 's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord! the world has wagged apace 
Since here we set the claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 


A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 

— There 's no one now to share my cup. 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of the dear old times. 
Welcome to wine, whate'er the seal is, 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse! 

William Makepeace Thackeray 



You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy; 

You walk with a languid swing; 
You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy, 

And lift up your voice and sing; 
The midnight moon is a friend of yours, 

And a serenade your joy — 
And it's only an age like mine that cures 

A trouble like yours, my boy! 

James Whitcomb Riley 



When first you trembled at my kiss 
And blushed before and after, 

Your life, a rose 'twixt May and June, 
Was stirred by breeze of laughter. 

I asked no mortal maid to leave 
A kiss where there were plenty; 

Enough the fragrance of your lips 
When I was five-and-twenty. 

Fair mistress of a moment's joy, 
We met, and then we parted: 

You gave me all you had to give, 
Nor were you broken-hearted! 

For other lips have known your kiss, 

Oh! fair inconstant lady, 
While you have gone your shameless way 

'Till life has passed its heyday. 


And then we met in middle age, 

You matronly and older; 
And somewhat gone your maiden blush, 

And I, well, rather colder. 

And now that you are thin and pale, 

And I am slowly graying, 
We meet, remindful of the past, 

When we two went a-Maying. 

Alas! while you, an old coquette, 
Still flaunt your faded roses, 

The arctic loneliness of age 
Around my pathway closes. 

Dear aged wanton of the feast, 

Egeria of gay dinners, 
I leave your unforgotten charm 

To other younger sinners. 

Or was it some love-wildered beau 
Of old colonial days, 


With clouded cane and broidered coat, 
And very artful ways? 

And did he whisper through her curls 
Some wicked, pleasant vow, 

And swear no courtly dame had words 
As sweet as "thee" and "thou"? 

Or did he praise her dimpled chin 

In eager song or sonnet, 
And find a merry way to cheat 

Her kiss-defying bonnet? 

And sang he then in verses gay, 

Amid this forest shady, 
The dainty flower at her feet 

Was like his Quaker lady? 

And did she pine in English fogs, 

Or was his love enough? 
And did she learn to sport the fan, 

And use the patch and puff? 


Alas! Perhaps she played quadrille, 
And, naughty grown and older, 

Was pleased to show a dainty neck, 
Above a dainty shoulder. 

But sometimes in the spring, I think, 

She saw, as in a dream, 
The meeting-house, the home sedate, 

The Schuylkill's quiet stream; 

And sometimes in the minuet's pause 
Her heart went wide afield, 

To where, amid the woods of May, 
A blush its love revealed. 

'Till far away from court and king, 

And powder and brocade, 
The Quaker ladies at her feet 

Their quaint obeisance made. 

Silas Weir Mitchell 




It may be so, — perhaps thou hast 

A warm and loving heart; 
I will not blame thee for thy face, 

Poor devil as thou art. 

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, 

Unsightly though it be, — 
In spite of all the cold world's scorn, 

It may be much to thee. 

Those eyes, — among thine elder friends 
Perhaps they pass for blue; — 

No matter, — if a man can see, 
What more have eyes to do? 

Thy mouth, — that fissure in thy face 
By something like a chin, — 

May be a very useful place 
To put thy victual in; 


I know thou hast a wife at home, 
I know thou hast a child, 

By that subdued, domestic smile 
Upon thy features mild. 

That wife sits fearless by thy side, 
That cherub on thy knee; 

They do not shudder at thy looks, 
They do not shrink from thee. 

Above thy mantel is a hook, — 
A portrait once was there; 

It was thine only ornament, — 
Alas ! that hook is bare. 

She begged thee not to let it go, 
She begged thee all in vain; 

She wept, — and breathed a trem- 
bling prayer 
To meet it safe again. 

It was a bitter sight to see 
That picture torn away; 


It was a solemn thought to think 
What all her friends would say! 

And often in her calmer hours, 
And in her happy dreams, 

Upon its long-deserted hook 
The absent portrait seems. 

Thy wretched infant turns his head 

In melancholy wise, 
And looks to meet the placid stare 

Of those unbending eyes. 

I never saw thee, lovely one, — 

Perhaps I never may; 
It is not often that we cross 

Such people in our way; 

But if we meet in distant years, 

Or on some foreign shore, 

Sure I can take my Bible oath, 

I've seen that face before. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 


Old Grimes is dead; that good old man 

We never shall see more: 
He used to wear a long, black coat, 

All buttoned down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true; 
His hair was some inclined to gray — _ 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burn'd; 

The large, round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turn'd. 

Kind words he ever had from all; 

He knew no base design: 
His eyes were dark and rather small, 

His nose was aquiline. 


He lived at peace with all mankind, 

In friendship he was true: 
His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes 

He passed securely o'er, 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune's frown: 

He wore a double-breasted vest — 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert: 
He had no malice in his mind, 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse — 

Was sociable and gay: 
He wore large buckles on his shoes 

And changed them every day. 


His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 

He did not bring to view, 
Nor made a noise, town-meeting days, 

As many people do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to fortune's chances, 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 
In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares, 

His peaceful moments ran; 
And everybody said he was 

A fine old gentleman. 

Albert Gorton Greene 


I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound, 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
E'er the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 



That it seems as if he said, 
"They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago, — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff, 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 


I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here; 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer. 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 


Some years ago, ere time and waste 

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the green, 

And guided to the Parson's wicket. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath; 

Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlour steps collected, 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say — 

" Our master knows you — you 're expected. " 

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; 


The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed, 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end, 

And warmed himself in Court or College, 
He had not gained an honest friend 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge, — 
If he departed as he came, 

With no new light on love or liquor, — 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar. 

His talk was like a stream, which runs 
With rapid change from rocks to roses: 

It slipped from politics to puns, 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses; 

Beginning with the laws which keep 
The planets in their radiant courses, 


And ending with some precept deep 
For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; 
And when, by dint of page and line, 

He 'stablished Truth, or startled Error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep; 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; 
And the lean Levite went to sleep, 

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said or showed 

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius: 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and head that penned and planned 
For all who understood admired, 

And some who did not understand them. 

He wrote, too, in a quiet way, 

Small treatises, and smaller verses, 


And sage remarks on chalk and clay, 
And hints to noble Lords — and nurses. 

True histories of last year's ghost, 
Lines to a ringlet, or a turban, 

And trifles for the Morning Post, 
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 

He did not think all mischief fair, 

Although he had a knack of joking; 
He did not make himself a bear, 

Although he had a taste for smoking; 
And when religious sects ran mad, 

He held, in spite of all his learning, 
That, if a man's belief is bad, 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 
In the low hut or garnished cottage, 

And praise the farmer's homely wit, 

And share the widow's homelier pottage: 

At his approach complaint grew mild; 
And when his hand unbarred the shutter, 


The clammy lips of fever smiled 

The welcome which they could not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus; 
From him I learnt the rule of three, 

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus: 
I used to singe his powdered wig, 

To steal the staff he put such trust in, 
And make the puppy dance a jig, 

When he began to quote Augustine. 

Alack the change! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, - 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled: 
The church is larger than before; 

You reach it by a carriage entry; 
It holds three hundred people more, 

And pews are fitted up for gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear 
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 


Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 

Where is the old man laid? — look down, 
And construe on the slab before you, 

"Hie jacet Gulielm us Brown, 
Vir nulla non donandus lauru." 




Yes, I write verses now and then, 
But blunt and flaccid is my pen, 
No longer talked of by young men 

As rather clever. 
In their last quarter are my eyes, 
You see it by their form and size, 
Is it not time, then, to be wise? — 

Or now, or never. 

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! 
While time allows the short reprieve 
Just look at me ! Could you believe 

'T was once a lover? 
I cannot clear the five-barred gate, 
But trying first its timber's state, 
Climb stiffly up, take breath and wait, 

To trundle over. 

Through galopade I cannot swing 
Th' entangling blooms of beauty's spring; 


I cannot say the tender thing, 

Be 't true or false. 
And am beginning to opine 
Those girls are only half -divine 
Whose waists you wicked boys entwine 

In giddy waltz. 

I fear that arm above that shoulder, 
I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
Sedater, and no harm if colder, 

And panting less. 
Ah! people were not half so wild 
In former days, when, starchly mild, 
Upon her high-heeled Essex smiled 

The brave Queen Bess. 

Walter Savage Landor 



(grandpapa loquitur) 

You don't know Froissart now, young folks. 

This age, I think, prefers recitals 
Of high-spiced crime, with "slang" for jokes, 
And startling titles. 

But, in my time, when still some few 

Loved "old Montaigne," and praised Pope's 
(Nay, thought to style him "poet" too, 
Were scarce misnomer), 

Sir John was less ignored. Indeed, 

I can recall how Some-one present 
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read 
And find him pleasant; 

For, — by this copy, — hangs a Tale. 
Long since, in an old house in Surrey, 



Where men knew more of "morning ale" 
Than "Lindley Murray," 

In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall, 

'Neath Hogarth's "Midnight Conversa- 
It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall, 
With fond elation, 

I turned the old brown leaves. For there 

All through one hopeful happy summer, 
At such a page (I well knew where), 
Some secret comer, 

Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you 

(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken), 
Would sometimes place for private view 
A certain token; — 

A rose-leaf meaning "Garden Wall," 
An ivy leaf for "Orchard corner," 
A thorn to say "Don't come at all," — 
Unwelcome warner ! — 


Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid; 

But then Romance required dissembling, 
(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred 
Some genuine trembling; 

Though, as a rule, all used to end 
In such kind confidential parley 
As may to you kind Fortune send, 
You long-legged Charlie, 

When your time comes. How years slip on! 

We had our crosses like our betters; 
Fate sometimes looked askance upon 
Those floral letters; 

And once, for three long days disdained, 

The dust upon the folio settled; 
For some-one, in the right, was pained, 
And some-one nettled, 

That sure was in the wrong, but spake 

Of fixed intent and purpose stony 
To serve King George, enlist and make 
Minced-meat of "Boney," 



Who yet survived — ten years at least. 

And so, when she I mean came hither, 
One day that need for letters ceased, 
She brought this with her! 

Here is the leaf -stained chapter : — How 
The English King laid Siege to Calais; 
I think Gran, knows it even now, — 
Go ask her, Alice. 

Austin Dobson 




Twelve years ago I made a mock 

Of filthy trades and traffics : 
I wondered what they meant by stock; 

I wrote delightful sapphics; 
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 

I supped with Fates and Furies, — 
Twelve years ago I was a boy, 

A happy boy, at Drury's. 

Twelve years ago ! how many a thought 

Of faded pains and pleasures 
Those whispered syllables have brought 

From Memory's hoarded treasures! 
The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, 

The glories and disgraces, 
The voices of dear friends, the looks 

Of old familiar faces! 


Kind mater smiles again to me, 

As bright as when we parted; 
I seem again the frank, the free, 

Stout-limbed, and simple-hearted! 
Pursuing every idle dream, 

And shunning every warning; 
With no hard work but Bovney stream, 

No chill except Long Morning : 

Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball 

That rattled like a rocket; 
Now hearing Wentworth's " fourteen all!" 

And striking for the pocket; 
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — 

Now drinking from the pewter; 
Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, 

Now laughing at my tutor. 

Where are my friends? I am alone; 

No playmate shares my beaker : 
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, 

And some — before the Speaker; 


And some compose a tragedy, 

And some compose a rondo; 
And some draw sword for Liberty, 

And some draw pleas for John Doe. 

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes 

Without the fear of sessions; 
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities, 

As much as false professions; 
Now Mill keeps order in the land, 

A magistrate pedantic; 
And Medlar's feet repose unscanned 

Beneath the wide Atlantic. 

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, 

Does Dr. Martext's duty; 
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, 

Is married to a beauty; 
And Darrell studies, week by week, 

His Mant, and not his Manton; 
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 

Is very rich at Canton. 


And I am eight-and-twenty now; — 

The world's cold chains have bound me; 
And darker shades are on my brow, 

And sadder scenes around me : 
In Parliament I fill my seat, 

With many other noodles; 
And lay my head in Jermyn Street, 

And sip my hock at Boodle's. 

But often, when the cares of life 

Have set my temples aching, 
When visions haunt me of a wife, 

When duns await my waking, 
When Lady Jane is in a pet, 

Or Hoby in a hurry, 
When Captain Hazard wins a bet, 

Or Beaulieu spoils a curry, — 

For hours and hours I think and talk 

Of each remembered hobby; 
I long to lounge in Poets' Walk, 

To shiver in the lobby; 


I wish that I could run away 

From House, and Court, and Levee, 

Where bearded men appear to-day 
Just Eton boys grown heavy, — 

That I could back in childhood's sun 

And dance o'er childhood's roses, 
And find huge w T ealth in one pound one, 

Vast wit in broken noses, 
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 

And call the milkmaids Houris, — 
That I could be a boy again, — 

A happy boy, — at Drury's. 

Winthjrop Mack worth Praed 


In the old times of golden-gowned Romance, 
When deeds wore grace, and color clung to 
When days were rich in splendid circum- 
And living had a gesture and a reach — 
Then had we been what figures in a tale! 
You, with your crown of bronze and cloudy 
Child of what castle — till my dinted mail 
Gleamed on your drawbridge, and you met 
me there. 

Who knows what roads we might have gone 

Helped by what friars to evening cr;ist and 

With candles sputtering in the windy 

weather. . . . 


Something . . . my soul remembers . . . and 
gives hail 
To you who sit there, pouring out my tea, 
Something . . . remembers . . . "Yes, ah, 
thank you — three." 

David Morton 



I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing, 

When I was six and you were four; 
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, 

Were pleasures soon to please no more. 
Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, 

With little playmates, to and fro, 
We wander'd hand in hand together; 

But that was sixty years ago. 

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, 

And still our early love was strong; 
Still with no care our days were laden, 

They glided joyously along; 
And did I love you very dearly — 

How dearly words want power to show; 
I thought your heart was touched as nearly; 

But that was fifty years ago. 

Then other lovers came around you, 
Your beauty grew from year to year, 


And many a splendid circle found you 
The center of its glittering sphere. 

I saw you then, first vows forsaking, 
On rank and wealth your hand bestow; 

O, then, I thought my heart was breaking, ■ 
But that was forty years ago. 

And I lived on, to wed another: 

No cause she gave me to repine; 
And when I heard you were a mother, 

I did not wish the children mine. 
My own young flock, in fair progression, 

Made up a pleasant Christmas row : 
My joy in them was past expression; — 

But that was thirty years ago. 

You grew a matron plump and comely, 
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; 

My earthly lot w r as far more homely; 
But I too had my festal days. 

No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd 
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, 


Then when my youngest child was chris- 
ten'd: — 
But that was twenty years ago. 

Time past. My eldest girl was married, 

And now I am a grandsire grey; 
One pet of four years old I've carried 

Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. 
In our old fields of childish pleasure, 

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, 
She fills her basket's ample measure, — 

But that is not ten years ago. 

But tho' first love's impassion'd blindness 

Has pass'd away in colder light, 
I still have thought of you with kindness, 

And shall do, till our last good-night. 
The ever-rolling silent hours 

Will bring a time we shall not know, 
When our young days of gathering flowers 

Will be an hundred years ago. 

Thomas Love Peacock 


Years — years ago — ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wise or witty, — 
Ere I had done with writing themes, 

Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; — 
Years — years ago — while all my joy 

Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I fell in love with Laura Lily. 

I saw her at the County Ball : 

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle, 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that set young hearts romancing; 
She was our queen, our rose, our star; 

And then she danced — O Heaven, her 


Dark was her hair, her hand was white; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light; 

I never saw a waist so slender! 
Her every look, her every smile, 

Shot right and left a score of arrows; 
I thought 't was Venus from her isle, 

And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. 

She talk'd — of politics or prayers, — 

Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's 
Of danglers — or of dancing bears, 

Of battles — or the last new bonnets, 
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, 

To me it matter'd not a tittle; 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they murmur'd Little. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal; 


My mother laugh'd; I soon found out 
That ancient ladies have no feeling; 

My father frown'd; but how should gout 
See any happiness in kneeling? 

She was the daughter of a Dean, 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; 
She had one brother, just thirteen, 

Whose color was extremely hectic; 
Her grandmother for many a year 

Had fed the parish with her bounty; 
Her second cousin was a peer, 

And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 

But titles, and the three per cents, 

And mortgages, and great relations, 
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, 

Oh what are they to love's sensations? 
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — 

Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses; 
He cares as little for the Stocks, 

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 


She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
She botanized; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir fading: 
She warbled Handel; it was grand; 

She made the Catalani jealous : 
She touched the organ; I could stand 

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 

She kept an album, too, at home, 

Well filled with all an album's glories; 
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories; 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, 

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, 
And autographs of Prince Leboo, 

And recipes for elder-water. 

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; 

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; 
Her poodle dog was quite adored, 

Her sayings were extremely quoted; 


She laughed, and every heart was glad, 
As if the taxes were abolished; 

She frowned, and every look was sad, 
As if the Opera were demolished. 

She smiled on many, just for fun, — 

I knew that there was nothing in it; 
I was the first — the only one 

Her heart had thought of for a minute.- 
I knew it, for she told me so, 

In phrase which was divinely moulded; 
She w r rote a charming hand, — and oh! 

How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 

Our love was like most other loves ; — 

A little glow, a little shiver, 
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 

And 'Fly not yet' — upon the river; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir, 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
A miniature, a lock of hair, 

The usual vows, — and then we parted. 


We parted; months and months rolled by; 

We met again four summers after: 
Our parting was all sob and sigh; 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter: 
For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers; 
And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 

But only — Mrs. Something Rogers! 




Fair cousin mine ! the golden days 

Of old romance are over; 
And minstrels now care nought for bays, 

Nor damsels for a lover; 
And hearts are cold, and lips are mute 

That kindled once with passion, 
And now we've neither lance nor lute, 

And tilting 's out of fashion. 

Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time 

When Love found words in flowers; 
When softest sighs were breathed in 

And sweetest songs in bowers; 
Now wedlock is a sober thing — 

No more of chains or forges! — 
A plain young man — a plain gold ring — 

The curate — and St. George's. 


Then every cross-bow had a string, 

And every heart a fetter; 
And making love was quite the thing, 

And making verses better; 
And maiden aunts were never seen, 

And gallant beaux were plenty; 
And lasses married at sixteen, 

And died at one-and-twenty. 

Then hawking was a noble sport, 

And chess a pretty science; 
And huntsmen learned to blow a mart, 

And heralds a defiance. 
And knights and spearmen show'd their might, 

And timid hinds took warning; 
And hypocras was warru'd at night 

And coursers in the morning. 

Then plumes and pennons were prepared, 

And patron saints were lauded; 
And noble deeds were bravely dared, 

And noble dames applauded; 


And Beauty play'd the leech's part, 
And wounds were heaFd with syrup; 

And warriors sometimes lost a heart, 
But never lost a stirrup. 

Then there was no such thing as Fear, 

And no such word as Reason; 
And Faith was like a pointed spear, 

And fickleness was treason; 
And hearts were soft, though blows were hard; 

But when the fight was over, 
A brimming goblet cheer'd the board, 

His Lady's smile the lover. 

Ay, those were glorious days ! The moon 

Had then her true adorers; 
And there w T ere lyres and lutes in tune, 

And no such thing as snorers; 
And lovers swam, and held at nought 

Streams broader than the Mersey; 
And fifty thousand would have fought 

For a smile from Lady Jersey. 


Then people wore an iron vest, 

And had no use for tailors; 
And the artizans who lived the best 

Were armourers and nailers: 
And steel was measured by the ell, 

And trousers lined with leather; 
And jesters wore a cap and bell, 

And knights a cap and feather. 

Then single folks might live at ease, 

And married ones might sever; 
Uncommon doctors had their fees, 

But Doctors' Commons never; 
O! had we in those times been bred, 

Fair cousin, for thy glances, 
Instead of breaking Priscian's head, 

I had been breaking lances ! 

Edward Fitzgerald 



She was a beauty in the days 
When Madison was President, 

And quite coquettish in her ways, — 
On conquests of the heart intent. 

Grandpapa, on his right knee bent, 
Wooed her in stiff, old-fashioned phrase, - 
She was a beauty in the days 

When Madison was President. 

And when your roses where hers went 
Shall go, my Rose, who date from Hayes, 

I hope you '11 wear her sweet content 
Of whom tradition lightly says : 
She was a beauty in the days 

When Madison was President. 

Henry Cuyler Btjnner 


'T is years, soubrette, since last we met; 

And yet — ah, yet, how swift and tender 
My thoughts go back in time's dull track 

To you, sweet pink of female gender! 
I shall not say — though others may — 

That time all human joy enhances; 
But the same old thrill comes to me still 

With memories of your songs and dances. 

Soubrettish ways these latter days 

Invite my praise, but never get it; 
I still am true to yours and you — 

My record's made, I'll not upset it! 
The pranks they play, the things they 
say — 

I 'd blush to put the like on paper, 
And I'll avow they don't know how 

To dance, so awkwardly they caper! 


I used to sit down in the pit 

And see you flit like elf or fairy 
Across the stage, and I'll engage 

No moonbeam sprite was half so airy; 
Lo, everywhere about me there 

Were rivals reeking with pomatum, 
, And if, perchance, they caught your glance 

In song or dance, how did I hate 'em. 

At half-past ten came rapture — then 

Of all those men was I most happy, 
For bottled-beer and royal cheer 

And tetes-a-tetes were on the tapis. 
Do you forget, my fair soubrette, 

Those suppers at the Cafe Rector, — 
The cosy nook where we partook 

Of sweeter cheer than fabled nectar? 

Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways 
Knew every phase of harmless folly! 

Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delights 

Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! 



Gone are they all beyond recall, 

And I — a shade, a mere reflection — 

Am forced to feed my spirit's greed 
Upon the husks of introspection! 

And lo! to-night, the phantom light, 

That, as a sprite, flits on the fender, 
Reveals a face whose girlish grace 

Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; 
And, all the while, the old-time smile 

Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled, — 
As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet 

Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled ! 

Eugene Field 



Dear Dolly ! who does not recall 
The thrilling page that pictured all 
Those charms that held our sense in thrall, 

Just as the artist caught her — 
As down that English lane she tripped, 
In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped, 
Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped, 

The locksmith's pretty daughter. 

Sweet fragment of the Master's art! 
O simple faith! O rustic heart! 
O maid that hath no counterpart 

In life's dry, dog-eared pages! 
Where shall we find thy like? Ah, stay! 
Methinks I saw her yesterday 
In chintz that flowered, as one might say, 

Perennial for ages. 

Her father's modest cot was stone, 
Five stories high; in style and tone 


Composite, and, I frankly own, 

Within its walls revealing 
Some certain novel, strange ideas; 
A Gothic door with Roman piers, 
And floors removed some thousand years 

From their Pompeiian ceiling. 

The small salon where she received 
Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved 
By Chinese cabinets, conceived 

Grotesquely by the heathen; 
The sofas were a classic sight — 
The Roman bench (sedilia hight) ; 
The chairs were French in gold and white. 

And one Elizabethan. 

And she, the goddess of that shrine, 
Two ringed fingers placed in mine — 
The stones were many carats fine, 

And of the purest water — 
Then dropped a curtsey, far enough 
To fairly fill her cretonne puff 


iAnd show the petticoat's rich stuff 

That her fond parent bought her. 

Her speech was simple as her dress — 
Not French the more, but English less, 
She loved; yet sometimes, I confess, 

I scarce could comprehend her. 
Her manners were quite far from shy: 
There was a quiet in her eye 
Appalling to the Hugh who 'd try 

With rudeness to offend her. 

"But whence," I cried, "this masquerade? 
Some figure for this night's charade — 
A Watteau shepherdess or maid?" 

She smiled and begged my pardon: 
Why surely you must know the name — 
That woman who was Shakespeare's flame 
Or Byron's — well, it's all the same: 

Why, Lord! I 'm Dolly Varden ! " 

Francis Bret Harte 



" Si jeunesse savait? — " 

I plunge my hand among the leaves: 
(An alien touch but dust perceives, 

Nought else supposes;) 
For me those fragrant ruins raise 
Clear memory of the vanished days 

When they were roses. 

"If youth but knew!" Ah, "if," in 

truth? — 
I can recall with what gay youth, 

To what light chorus, 
Unsobered yet by time or change, 
We roamed the many-gabled Grange, 

All life before us; 

Braved the old clock-tower's dust and 

To catch the dim Arthurian camp 
In misty distance; 


Peered at the still-room's sacred stores, 
Or rapped at walls for sliding doors 
Of feigned existence. 

What need had we for thoughts or cares! 
The hot sun parched the old parterres 

And "flowerful closes"; 
We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, 
Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, — 

Then plucked these roses. 

Louise was one — light, glib Louise, 
So freshly freed from school decrees 

You scarce could stop her; 
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised 
At fallen locks that scandalized 
Our dear "Miss Proper:" — 

Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness, 
Who wept — like Chaucer's Prioress, 
When Dash was smitten; 


Who blushed before the mildest men, 
Yet waxed a very Corday when 
You teased her kitten. 

I loved them all. Bell first and best; 
Louise the next — for days of jest 

Or madcap masking; 
And Ruth, I thought, — why, failing these, 
When my High-Mightiness should please, 

She'd come for asking. 

Louise was grave when last we met; 
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set; 

And Ruth, Heaven bless her, 
Ruth that I wooed, — and wooed in vain, 
Has gone where neither grief nor pain 

Can now distress her. 

Austin Dobson 



When I was a boy at college, 
Filling up with classic knowledge, 

Frequently I wondered why 
Old Professor Demas Bentley 
Used to praise so eloquently 

"Opera Horatii." 

Toiling on a season longer 

Till my reasoning powers got stronger, 

As my observation grew, 
I became convinced that mellow, 
Massic-loving poet fellow, 

Horace, knew a thing or two. 

Yes, we sophomores figured duly 
That, if we appraised him truly, 
Horace must have been a brick; 


And no wonder that with ranting 
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting 
Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! 

For that pink of female gender 
Tall and shapely was, and slender, 

Plump of neck and bust and arms, 
While the raiment that invested 
Her so jealously suggested 

Certain more potential charms. 

Those dark eyes of hers that fired him, 
Those sweet accents that inspired him, - 

And her crown of glorious hair, — 
These things baffle my description: 
I should have a fit conniption 

If I tried; so I forbear. 

Maybe Lydia had her betters; 
Anyhow, this man of letters 
Took that charmer as his pick. 


Glad — yes, glad I am to know it! 
I, a fin de siecle poet, 

Sympathize with Lydia Dick! 

Often in my arbor shady 
I fall thinking of that lady, 

And the pranks she used to play; 
And I 'm cheered, — for all we Lages 
Joy when from those distant ages 

Lydia dances down our way. 

Otherwise some folks might wonder, 
With good reason, why in thunder 

Learned professors, dry and prim, 
Find such solace in the giddy 
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy 

Or that Liddy played with him. 

Still this world of ours rejoices 
In those ancient singing voices, 

And our hearts beat high and quick, 


To the cadence of old Tiber 
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber 
And of charming Lydia Dick. 

Still Digentia, downward flowing, 
Prattleth to the roses blowing 

By the dark, deserted grot. 
Still Socrate, looming lonely, 
Watcheth for the coming only 

Of a ghost that cometh not. 

Eugene Field 



Here on my desk it lies, 
Here as the daylight dies, 
One small glove just her size — 

Six and a quarter; 
Pearl-gray, a color neat, 
Deux boutons all complete, 
Faint-scented, soft and sweet; 

Could glove be smarter? 

Can I the day forget, 
Years ago, when the pet 
Gave it me? — where we met 

Still I remember; 
Then 't was the summer-time; 
Now as I write this rhyme 
Children love pantomime — 

'T is in December. 


Fancy my boyish bliss 
Then when she gave me this, 
And how the frequent kiss 

Crumpled its fingers; 
Then she was fair and kind, 
Now, when I've changed my mind, 
Still some scent undefined 

On the glove lingers. 

Though she 's a matron sage, 
Yet I have kept the gage; 
While, as I pen this page, 

Still comes a goddess, 
Her eldest daughter, fair, 
With the same eyes and hair: 
Happy the arm, I swear, 

That clasps her bodice. 

Heaven grant her fate be bright, 
And her step ever light 
As it will be to-night, 
First in the dances. 


Why did her mother prove 
False when I dared to love? 
Zounds! I shall burn the glove! 
This my romance is. 

H. Saville Clarke 



"Martiis ccelebs quid agam Kalendis . . . miraris?" 


Charles, — for it seems you wish to know, — 
You wonder what could scare me so, 
And why, in this long-locked bureau, 

With trembling fingers, — 
With tragic air, I now replace 
This ancient web of yellow lace, 
Among whose faded folds the trace 

Of perfume lingers. 

Friend of my youth, severe as true, 
I guess the train your thoughts pursue; 
But this my state is nowise due 

To indigestion; 
I had forgotten it was there, 
A scarf that Some-one used to wear. 
Hinc illce lacrimae, — so spare 

Your cynic question. 


Some-one who is not girlish now, 

And wed long since. We meet and bow; 

I don't suppose our broken vow 

Affects us keenly; 
Yet, trifling though my act appears, 
Your Sternes would make it ground for 

tears ; — 
One can't disturb the dust of years, 

And smile serenely. 

"My golden locks" are gray and chill, 
For hers, — let them be sacred still; 
But yet, I own, a boyish thrill 

Went dancing through me, 
Charles, when I held yon yellow lace; 
For, from its dusty hiding-place, 
Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face 

That beckoned to me. 

We shut our heart up, now-a-days, 
Like some old music-box that plays 
Unfashionable airs that raise 
Derisive pity; 



Alas, — a nothing starts the spring; 
And lo, the sentimental thing 
At once commences quavering 
Its lover's ditty. 

Laugh if you like. The boy in me, — 

The boy that was, — revived to see 

The fresh young smile that shone when she, 

Of old, was tender. 
Once more we trod the Golden Way, — 
The mother you saw yesterday, 
And I, whom none can well portray, 

As young, or slender. 

She twirled the flimsy scarf about 
Her pretty head, and stepping out, 
Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout 

Of childish pleasure. 
Where we were bound no mortal knows, 
For then you plunged in Ireland's woes, 
And brought me blankly back to prose 

And Gladstone's measure. 


Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. 
My brown old books around me wait, 
My pipe still holds, unconfiscate, 

Its wonted station. 
Pass me the wine. To Those that keep 
The bachelor's secluded sleep 
Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, 

I pour libation ! 

Austin Dobson 



Have sorrows come? Has pleasure sped? 

Is earthly bliss an empty bubble? 
Is some one dull, or something dead? 

Or may I, may n't I share your trouble? 

Ay 9 so it is, and is it fair? 

Poor men (your elders and your betters!) 
Who can't look pretty in despair, 

Feel quite as sad about their letters. 

Old letters! wipe away the tear 

For lines so pale, so vainly worded; 

A Pilgrim finds his journal here 

Since first his youthful loins were girded. 

Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove; 

How could philosophy expect us 
To live with Dr. Wise, and love 

Rice pudding and the Greek Delectus? 


How strange to commune with the Dead! 

Dead joys, dead loves; and wishes thwarted; 
Here's proof of cruel friendships fled, 

And, sad enough, of friends departed. 

Yes, here 's the offer that I wrote 

In '33 to Lucy Diver; 
And here 's John Wylie's begging note, — 

He never paid me back a stiver. 

Here's news from Paternoster Row; 

How mad I was when first I learnt it! 
They would not take my Book, and now 

I wish to goodness I had burnt it. 

A ghastly bill! "I disapprove" 

And yet She help'd me to defray it: — 

What tokens of a mother's love ! 
O bitter thought, — I can't repay it. 

And here 's a score of notes at last, 
With "Love" and "Dove," and "Sever 
Never" ; 



Though hope, though passion may be past, 
Their perfume seems — ah, sweet as ever. 

A human heart should beat for two, 
Whate'er may say your single scorners; 

And all the hearths I ever knew 
Had got a pair of chimney-corners. 

See here a double violet — 

Two locks of hair — A deal of scandal; 
I '11 burn what only brings regret — 

Kitty, go, fetch a lighted candle. 

Frederick Locker-Lampson 



'Mid drab and gray of moldered leaves, 

The spoil of last October, 
I see the Quaker lady stand, 

In dainty garb and sober. 

No speech has she for praise or prayer, 

No blushes, as I claim 
To know what gentle whisper gave 

Her prettiness a name. 

The wizard stillness of the hour 

My fancy aids; again 
Return the days of hoop and hood 

And tranquil William Penn. 

I see a maid amid the wood 

Demurely calm and meek, 
Untroubled by the mob of curls 

That riots on her cheek. 

Her eyes are blue, her cheeks are red, — 
Gay colors for a Friend, — 


And Nature with her mocking rouge 
Stands by a blush to lend. 

The gown that holds her rosy grace 

Is truly of the oddest; 
And wildly leaps her tender heart 

Beneath her kerchief modest. 

It must have been the poet Love 
Who, while she slyly listened, 

Divined the maiden in the flower, 
And thus her semblance christened. 

Was he a proper Quaker lad 

In suit of simple gray? 
What fortune had his venturous speech, 

And was it "yea" or "nay"? 

And if indeed she murmured "yea," 
And throbbed with worldly bliss, 
I wonder if in such a case 
Do Quakers ever kiss? 

Silas Weir Mitchell 


Grandmother's mother : her age, I guess, 
Thirteen summers, or something less; 
Girlish bust, but womanly air; 
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; 
Lips that lover has never kissed; 
Taper fingers and slender wrist; 
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 

Sits unmoving and broods serene. 

Hold up the canvas full in view, — 

Look ! there 's a rent the light shines through, 

Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 

That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! 

Such is the tale the lady old, 

Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 

Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well; 


Hard and dry, it must be confessed, 
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white, 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
Dorothy Q. was a lady born! 
Ay! since the galloping Normans came, 
England's annals have known her name; 
And still to the three-hilled rebel town 
Dear is that ancient name's renown, 
For many a civic wreath they won, 
The youthful sire and the gray-haired son. 

O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.! 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you; 
Such a gift as never a king 
Save to a daughter or son might bring, — 
All my tenure of heart and hand, 
All my title to house and land; 


Mother and sister and child and wife 
And joy and sorrow and death and life! 

What if a hundred years ago 

Those close-shut lips had answered No, 

When forth the tremulous question came 

That cost the maiden her Norman name, 

And under the folds that look so still 

The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill? 

Should I be I, or would it be 

One tenth another to nine tenths me? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes: 
Not the light gossamer stirs with less; 
But never a cable that holds so fast 
Through all the battles of wave and blast, 
And never an echo of speech and song 
That lives in the babbling air so long ! 
There were tones in the voice that whis- 
pered then 
You may hear to-day in a hundred men. 


lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, — and here we are, 
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward's and Dorothy's — all their own, — 
A goodly record for Time to show 

Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — 
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive 
For the tender whisper that bade me live? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid! 

1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, 
And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame, 
And gild with a rhyme your household name; 
So you shall smile on us brave and bright 

As first you greeted the morning's light, 
And live untroubled by woes and fears 
Through a second youth of a hundred years. 
Oliver Wendell Holmes 



(suggested by a picture by 
mr. romney) 

This relative of mine, 
Was she seventy-and-nine 

When she died? 
By the canvas may be seen 
How she looked at seventeen, 

As a bride. 

Beneath a summer tree, 
Her maiden reverie 

Has a charm; 
Her ringlets are in taste; 
What an arm ! . . . what a waist 

For an arm! 

With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, 
Lace farthingale, and gay 
Falbala, — 



Were Romney's limning true, 
What a lucky dog were you, 

Her lips are sweet as love; 

They are parting! Do they move? 

Are they dumb? 
Her eyes are blue, and beam 
Beseechingly, and seem 

To say "Come!" 

What fun ny fancy slips 

From atween these cherry lips? 

Whisper me, 
Sweet sorceress in paint, 
What canon says I may n't 

Marry thee? 

That good-for-nothing Time 
Has a confidence sublime! 

When I first 
Saw this lady, in my youth, 


Her winters had, forsooth, 
Done their worst. 

Her locks, as white as snow, 
Once shamed the swarthy crow: 

That fowl's avenging sprite 
Set his cruel foot for spite 

Near her eye. 

Her rounded form was lean, 
And her silk was bombazine : 

Well I wot 
With her needles would she sit, 
And for hours would she knit, — ■ 

Would she not? 

Ah, perishable clay; 

Her charms had dropt away 

One by one: 
But if she heaved a sigh 
With a burthen, it was, "Thy 

Will be done." 


In travail, as in tears, 
With the fardel of her years 

In mercy she was borne 
Where the weary and the worn 

Are at rest. 

O, if you now are there, 
And sweet as once you were, 

This nether world agrees 
'T will all the better please 

Frederick Locker-Lampson 



Grandma told me all about it, 

Told me so I could n't doubt it, 

How she danced — my Grandma danced ! ■ 

Long ago. 
How she held her pretty head, 
How her dainty skirt she spread, 
Turning out her pretty toes; 
How she slowly leaned and rose — 

Long ago. 

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny; 
Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny! 
Really quite a pretty girl, 

Long ago. 
Bless her! why, she wears a cap, 
Grandma does, and takes a nap 
Every single day; and yet 
Grandma danced the minuet 

Long ago. 


Now she sits there rocking, rocking, 
Always knitting Grandpa's stocking — 
(Every girl was taught to knit 

Long ago.) 
Yet her figure is so neat, 
And her ways so staid and sweet, 
I can almost see her now 
Bending to her partner's bow, 

Long ago. 

Grandma says our modern jumping, 
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
Would have shocked the gentle folk 

Long ago. 
No — they moved with stately grace, 
Everything in proper place, 
Gliding slowly forward, then 
Slowly curtseying back again, 

Long ago. 

Modern ways are quite alarming, 
Grandma says; but boys were charming ■ 


Girls and boys I mean, of course, — 

Long ago. 
Bravely modest, grandly shy, — 
She would like to have us try 
Just to feel like those who met 
In the graceful minuet 

Long ago. 

With the minuet in fashion, 

Who could fly into a passion? 

All would wear the calm they wore 

Long ago. 
In time to come, if I, perchance, 
Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
I should really like to say, 
"We did it, dear, in some such way, 

Long ago." 
Mary Mapes Dodge 



They tell me (but I really can't 

Imagine such a rum thing), 
It is the phantom of my Aunt, 

Who ran away — or something. 

It is the very worst of bores : 
(My Aunt was most delightful). 

It prowls about the corridors, 
And utters noises frightful. 

At midnight through the rooms It glides, 

Behaving very coolly, 
Our hearts all throb against our sides — 

The lights are burning bluely. 

The lady, in her living hours, 
Was the most charming vixen 

That ever this poor sex of ours 
Delighted to play tricks on. 


Yes, that's her portrait on the wall, 
In quaint old-fashioned bodice : 

Her eyes are blue — her waist is small — 
A ghost! Pooh, pooh, — a goddess! 

A fine patrician shape, to suit 
My dear old father's sister — 

Lips softly curved, a dainty foot; 
Happy the man that kissed her! 

Light hair of crisp irregular curl 
Over fair shoulders scattered — 

Egad, she was a pretty girl, 
Unless Sir Thomas flattered! 

And who the deuce, in these bright days, 

Could possibly expect her 
To take to dissipated ways, 

And plague us as a spectre? 

Mortimer Collins 



My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! 

Long years have o'er her flown; 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 

That binds her virgin zone; 
I know it hurts her, — though she looks 

As cheerful as she can; 
Her waist is ampler than her life, 

For life is but a span. 

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! 

Her hair is almost gray; 
Why will she train that winter curl 

In such a spring-like way? 
How can she lay her glasses down, 

And say she reads as well, 
When, through a double convex lens, 

She just makes out to spell? 

Her father, — grandpapa! forgive 
This erring lip its smiles, — 


Vowed she should make the finest girl 

Within a hundred miles; 
He sent her to a stylish school; 

'T was in her thirteenth June; 
And with her, as the rules required, 

"Two towels and a spoon." 

They braced my aunt against a board, 

To make her straight and tall; 
They laced her up, they starved her down, 

To make her light and small; 
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, 

They screwed it up with pins; — 
Oh, never mortal suffered more 

In penance for her sins. 

So, when my precious aunt was done, 
My grandsire brought her back; 

(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 
Might follow on the track;) 

"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook 
Some powder in his pan, 


"What could this lovely creature do 
Against a desperate man!" 

Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche, 

Nor bandit cavalcade, 
Tore from the trembling father's arms 

His all-accomplished maid. 
For her how happy had it been! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one sad, ungathered rose 

On my ancestral tree. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 



I wonder in what Isle of Bliss 

Apollo's music fills the air; 
In what green valley Artemis 

For young Endymion spreads the 
snare : 

Where Venus lingers debonair: 
The Wind has blown them all away — 

And Pan lies piping in his lair — 
Where are the Gods of Yesterday? 

Say where the great Semiramis 
Sleeps in a rose-red tomb; and 

The precious dust of Caesar is, 
Or Cleopatra's yellow hair: 
Where Alexander Do-and-Dare; 

The Wind has blown them all away — 
And Redbeard of the Iron Chair; 

Where are the Dreams of Yesterday? 


Where is the Queen of Herod's kiss, 

And Phryne in her beauty bare; 
By what strange sea does Tomyris 

With Dido and Cassandra share 

Divine Proserpina's despair; 
The Wind has blown them all away — 

For what poor ghost does Helen care? 
Where are the Girls of Yesterday? 


Alas for lovers ! Pair by parr 

The Wind has blown them all away: 

The young and yare, the fond and fair: 
Where are the Snows of Yesterday? 

Justin Huntly McCarthy 



O vanity of vanities ! 

How wayward the decrees of Fate are; 
How very weak the very wise, 

How very small the very great are! 

What mean these stale moralities, 

Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble? 
Why rail against the great and wise, 

And tire us with your ceaseless grumble? 

Pray choose us out another text, 
O man morose and narrow-minded! 

Come turn the page — I read the next, 
And then the next, and still I find it. 

Read here how Wealth aside was thrust, 

And Folly set in place exalted; 
How Princes footed in the dust, 

While lackeys in the saddle vaulted. 


Though thrice a thousand years are past, 
Since David's son, the sad and splendid, 

The weary King Ecclesiast, 

Upon his awful tablets penned it, — 

Methinks the text is never stale, 
And life is every day renewing 

Fresh comments on the old old tale 
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin. 

Hark to the Preacher, preaching still; 

He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, 
Here at St. Peter's on Cornhill, 

As yonder on the Mount of Hermon: 

For you and me to heart to take 
(O dear beloved brother readers) 

To-day as when the good King spake 
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars. 

William Makepeace Thackekay 




A picture-frame for you to fill, 21 

A street there is in Paris famous, 248 

Again I hear that creaking step! 227 

Alas, how soon the hours are over, 215 

Although I enter not, 95 

An angel at noon, she 's a woman at night, 108 

As after noon, one summer's day, 200 

Ay, 't was here, on this spot, 65 

Beneath the warrior's helm, behold, 241 

Canst thou love me, lady? 73 

Charles, — for it seems you wish to know, 316 

Could I bring back lost youth again, 194 

Dear Chloe, how blubber 'd is that pretty face, 52 
Dear Dolly! who does not recall, 303 
Dear Priscilla, quaint and very, 103 

Fair cousin mine! the golden days, 295 
Fair Eve devised a walking-suit, 216 
Fly me not, though I be gray, 14 
Free as the wandering pike am I, 149 
From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's, 114 
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass, 25 
Full thirty frosts since thou wert young, 69 


Gentle, modest, little flower, 131 
Go and catch a falling star, 201 
Good-night to the Season! 'T is over! 41 
Good-night to thee, Lady ! tho' many, 179 
Grandma told me all about it, 333 
Grandmother's mother: her age, I guess, 325 

Had we but world enough, and time, 83 

Have sorrows come? Has pleasure sped? 320 

Heigh-ho! they've wed. The cards are dealt, 160 

Her lips were so near, 63 

Her scuttle Hatt is wondrous wide, 163 

Here on my desk it lies, 313 

How many between east and west, 26 

How shall I sing you, Child, for whom, 4 

I could resign that eye of blue, 141 
I 'd read three hours. Both notes and text, 88 
I go to concert, party, ball, 47 
I know not of what we ponder 'd, 169 
I know not why my soul is rack'd, 206 
I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore, 213 
I long have been puzzled to guess, 166 
I love to hear thine earnest voice, 238 
1 'm sitting alone by the fire, 208 
I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon," 119 
I painted her a gushing thing, 218 
I play 'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing, 286 
I plunge my hand among the leaves, 306 
I read to her one summer day, 98 


I recollect a nurse call'd Ann, 237 

I remember the time ere his temples were grey, 68 

I saw him once before, 264 

I saw it under the rose, 138 

I sent my love two roses, — one, 86 

I watch 'd her as she stoop 'd to pluck, 172 

I wonder in what Isle of Bliss, 341 

In the greenest growth of the Maytime, 145 

In the old times of golden-gowned Romance, 284 

It may be so, — perhaps thou hast, 258 

Jenny kiss'd me when we met, 15 

Just a week more of waiting, a week and a day, 37 

Just as I thought I was growing old, 13 

Lady, very fair are you, 32 

Last year I trod these fields with Di, 160 

Locate your love, you lose your love, 36 

Lord Harry has written a novel, 225 

Love me, sweet, with all thou art, 123 

Loves, knights and squires, the numerous band, 9 

Lyrics to Ines and Jane, 112 

'Mid drab and gray of moldered leaves, 323 
My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt, 338 
My coachman, in the moonlight there, 230 
My love she leans from the window, 82 
My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, 151 
My Postman, though I fear thy tread, 235 
My temples throb, my pulses boil, 224 


Never mind how the pedagogue proses, 30 
Not, Celia, that I juster am, 121 

O vanity of vanities! 343 

Oh, I would live in a dairy, 117 

Oh, if the world were mine, Love, 158 

Oh, see how thick the goldcup flowers, 34 

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, 261 

Old letters! wipe away the tear, 320 

On me he shall ne'er put a ring, 11 

Out upon it, I have loved, 128 

Past ruin'd Uion Helen lives, 71 

Permit me, Madame, to declare, 28 

Phyllis, you little rosy rake, 61 

Platonic friendship, at your years, 29 

Poor Rose! I lift you from the street, 185 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak, 195 

Sat we 'neath the dark verandah, 176 
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 203 
Shall I, wasting in despair, 156 
She came — she is gone — we have met, 188 
She has dancing eyes and ruby lips, 22 
"She is not fair to outward view," 126 
She sits in a fashionable parlor, 182 
She sports a witching gown, 19 
She was a beauty in the days, 299 
Short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it, 



Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 165 
Some years ago, ere time and waste, 207 
Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 27 
Strephon kissed me in the spring, 87 
Sweet Nea! for your lovely sake, 100 

'T is not your beauty nor your wit, 129 

'T is years, soubrette, since last we met, 300 

Tell me, perverse young year! 72 

That 't is well to be off with the old love, 111 

The days of Bute and Grafton's fame, 244 

The glow and the glory are plighted, 108 

The ladies of St. James's, 58 

The marriage bells have rung their peal, 132 

The merchant, to secure his treasure, 122 

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, 

The time I've lost in wooing, 198 
The turtle on yon withered bough, 127 
They may talk of love in a cottage, 16 
They nearly strike me dumb, 22 
They tell me (but I really can't, 336 
This relative of mine, 329 
Thou saist thou lov'st me, Sapho; I say no, 62 
Though the voice of modern schools, 91 
Thus Kitty, beautiful and young, 50 
To put new shingles on old roofs, 232 
Twelve years ago I made a mock, 279 

Upon this anniversary, 6 


"Vanitas vanitatum" has rung in the ears, 1 

We two learned the lesson together, 191 
We've lived for forty years, dear wife, 220 
W T hen fir^t you trembled at my kiss, 254 
When, full of warm and eager love, 64 
W 7 hen I behold a Forrest spread, 18 
When I loved you, I can't but allow, 164 
When I was a boy at college, 309 
When I was one-and twenty, 193 
When I was seventeen I heard, 12 
When Love is kind, 136 
When Man, expelled from Eden's bowers, 97 
W 7 hen Psyche's friend becomes her lover, 184 
W T hen Venus said: "Spell no for me," 107 
Why don't the men propose, mamma? 55 
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 205 

Years — years ago — ere yet my dreams, 289 
Yes, I write verses now and then, 273 
You don't know Froissart now, young folks, 275 
You'll come to our Ball; — since we parted, 76 
You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy, 253 



Adams, Franklin P, 126. 
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 138, 241 

Bayly, Thomas Haynes, 55, 225 
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 123 
Bunner, Henry Cuyler, 82, 142, 176, 299 
Burgess, Gelett, 149 
Bynner, Witter, 36 
Byron, Lord, 97 

Calverley, Charles Stuart, 73, 169, 172, 206 

Campbell, Thomas, 29, 194 

Carroll, Lewis, 65, 218 

Clarke, H. Saville, 313 

Cochrane, Alfred, 244 

Collins, Mortimer, 32, 336 

Cowper, William, 26, 69, 188 ? 196 

De Vere, Mary Ainge, 184 

Dobson, Austin, 4, 58, 88, 91, 114, 185, 275, 306, 

Dodge, Mary Mapes, 333 
Donne, John, 201 
Dowson, Ernest, 117 

Eliot, T. S., 119 

Field, Eugene, 300, 309 
Fitzgerald, Edward, 100, 179, 295 


Foss, Sam Walter, 220 
Freneau, Philip, 127 

Gilbert, William Schwenck, 131 
Goldsmith, Oliver, 203 
Greene, Albert Gorton, 261 
Guiterman, Arthur, 216 

Hall, Eliza C, 98 

Halpine, Charles Graham, 11 

Harte, Francis Bret, 208, 303 

Hay, John, 86 

Herford, Oliver, 28 

Herrick, Robert, 14, 18, 62 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 238, 258, 264, 325, 338 

Hood, Thomas, 151, 213, 224 

Housman, A. E, 34, 193 

Hunt, James Henry Leigh, 15 

Kipling, Rudyard, 47, 191 

Landor, Walter Savage, 25, 27, 68, 71, 72, 195, 

215, 273 
Lang, Andrew, 235 
Learned, W t alter, 12, 13, 63 
Locker-Lampson, Frederick, 1, 22, 108, 160, 237, 

320, 329 
Lowell, James Russell, 230 

McCarthy, Justin Huntly, 341 
Martin, Edward Sandford, 6, 132, 232 
Marvell, Andrew, 83 



Mitchell, Silas Weir, 254, 323 

Moore, Thomas, 30, 61, 136, 141, 164, 198 

Morton, David, 284 

Peacock, Thomas Love, 286 

Peck, Samuel Mlntun, 19 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth, 41, 76, 267, 279, 

Prior, Matthew, 9, 50, 52, 122, 200 

Riley, James Whitcomb, 253 
Roche, James Jeffrey, 158 

Saxe, John Godfrey, 166, 227 
Seaman, Owen, 37 
Sedley, Sir Charles, 121 
Shakespeare, William, 165 
Sherman, Frank Dempster, 103, 163 
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 21 
Story, William Wetmore, 64 
Suckling, Sir John, 128, 205 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 145 

Teasdale, Sara, 187 

Thackeray, William Makepeace, 96, 248, 343 

Webb, Charles Henry, 111, 112 
Wells, Carolyn, 107 
Willis, Nathaniel Parker, 16 
Wither, George, 156 


Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 



111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066